


Passions Assembled in Terrible Array

by ghostburr



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow
Genre: Canon Era, Courtroom Drama, M/M, THE THOUSAND TONGUES OF RUMOR HAVE BEEN STEADILY EMPLOYED, the fic william coleman wanted to write but was too chickenshit, trial of levi weeks erotica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr
Summary: The public are at length presented with the report of a trial, which has awakened unusual solicitude among all classes of people. On the question of the guilt or innocence of the accused, nothing shall be evinced here.
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	Passions Assembled in Terrible Array

Elma Sands’ corpse lay in her coffin in the streets of the filthy city and the sight of it made Hamilton gag. 

He had a strong stomach and never shied away from violence if he couldn’t help it, but this was different. She was young and naive. She didn’t deserve any of it. Her ruthless killing and the continued assault on her person, despite being deprived of its soul, was almost too much to bear. He took a different way to his office that morning, adding an extra twenty-three minutes to his walk, linen shirt sticking against him in the unnaturally humid winter.

He reached the front door of his office and spotted the ever-present circling of crows, screaming and crying in the distance above where she was displayed. He closed his eyes and shoved his key in the lock, “Barbaric.”

Hamilton hung his hat on the hook by the door and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It was early, perhaps seven-thirty, and he could not sleep. 

His temporary apartments, a few blocks over, were cramped and ugly. The bed needed fresh stuffing and the windows rattled so loudly at night it set his teeth on edge. The food was rancid. The candles were cheap and burned quickly. He spent most of his per diem replacing his stack of parchment that, he discovered on his fourth night there, had been destroyed by weevils. It was his forty-fifth birthday and he was alone.

 _When did you get to be so spoiled, Alexander?_ A voice in his head teased him. 

Hamilton closed his eyes and stretched his neck, tilting his head left and right, rubbing his shoulder. His muscles ached. He missed his bed and his wife and his children. The thought depressed him. He felt old. 

He stared at the open tomes on his desk-- dense and thick. Perhaps that was why he chose to help Livingston with the case he’d been saddled with, despite his best efforts to avoid _entanglements_ as much as possible. He recalled Livingston’s expression the day he’d visited Hamilton in his office. The case would be challenging, yes, but the prisoner’s brother is wealthy and willing to pay-- 

The crows’ screams reached crescendo. 

“I cannot even look at him, Henry,” Hamilton reasoned, when Livingston had first proposed the idea of bringing Burr in for a third counsel. 

Livingston pleaded, “Hamilton-- I cannot win this case without _both_ of you. Weeks’ brother has offered each of us more than my entire years’ salary-- I am _begging--_ ”

_“He humiliated me last year.”_

“I will not fault you that. I understand. But to pass something like this up...it would be a mistake,” Livingston had argued. “The city is desperate for it. You two are the only ones capable--”

_It would pay in the hundreds. Think of your lovely new house. Your debts. Your children. You must overlook petty disagreements and misunderstandings and work together for a common good._

“Yes, _yes_ , Henry, I’ve heard it all before…” Hamilton picked up one of the books from his desk and shoved it back onto the shelf. The litany was always the same. Set aside your personal feelings for the man and use his better talents for a good cause. 

He agreed to help Livingston and Hamilton thought the man would faint with relief. That, alone, Hamilton thought, made him feel good. It should have been enough of a solace to know that even though the next few weeks would be spent in Burr’s company he was doing a kind deed for his old friend. Those reasons placated Hamilton, for a few days, until his first dinner with the Colonel

And Hamilton grew _tired_ of being the righteous one.

 _Man of surfaces,_ Hamilton thought, staring at Burr from across the table at their dinner together. He watched the delicate brows furrow, studying a piece of evidence-- a hastily scrawled letter--the pretty fingers holding the paper six inches from his face. 

“This looks forged,” Burr said, irritatingly confident. He put it back down on the table. “No Quaker would use language like that.”

Hamilton bit his lip.

“How can you be so sure?”

Black eyes flickered, insulted, “You’re just going to have to trust me, General.”

 _And that’s how it’s going to be, is it?_ Hamilton thought, holding his tongue. _No room for arguments._ He shoved a piece of bread in his mouth. 

If he knew what having a blasted father was like, Hamilton presumed, heatedly, it would feel something like _this_. He glared daggers at Burr and savored the taste of the wine. 

It was terribly difficult to hate someone who inserted himself into Hamilton’s daily life. It was exhausting. It only took four days’ worth of dinner meetings for Burr to make him laugh so hard he felt lightheaded, spewing water out of his mouth at an outrageous joke and ruining a shirt. 

The feelings came and went in waves. It was _easier_ to enjoy him. But it wasn’t right.

“I brought _my_ favorite drink, this time,” Hamilton said one evening, placing the glasses on the table in front of them. “I always enjoy your company more when I’m drunk.”

“That’s not very professional.”

 _Was it an insult? Was it playful?_ The four words circled inside Hamilton’s brain like the infernal crows. He realized, startlingly, finishing his first glass of brandy, that it might have been both. He kicked Burr under the table and watched his face crack into a grin. 

_Is_ that _what I have to do?_

The trial date was set for the end of the month: March thirty-first. Hamilton came into his office on the twenty-eighth to see Livingston already there, fretful.

“Bad luck to put a trial on the last day of the month.” He wrung his hands. 

“Who on _earth_ told you that?” Hamilton laughed. 

Livingston ignored him, and handed him a newspaper, “Do you see what they’re saying? The entire city has turned against us. It’s that wretched corpse-- it’s been three months-- it’s hellish-- there _has_ to be a way to have it carted away. Not only is it unhygienic, they are unfairly influencing public opinion.”

Hamilton loosened the top button on his vest, “We are defending a man accused of murdering her, Henry, public opinion is already against us. You had to know this would happen when you took the case.”

“Where is Burr? Has he seen this article?”

“How am I to know?”

“You have been in his company nearly every day, I assumed you’d have at least mentioned it--” Livingston grew frustrated. “If not _this_ , then what?”

Hamilton felt stupid; hateful again. 

He turned to head back out to find Burr, Livingston calling after him, “Your arrogance is astounding sometimes, you know that, Hamilton?”

Several people glanced at the two shouting lawyers and tittered, walking faster. Hamilton shoved past them and made his way to the tavern where he and Burr had been meeting, hoping he’d be there. 

He headed back to their table in the corner of the room. 

He threw his coat onto the chair, snapping, “You should really just get an office already. I am tired of searching for you all over this ugly city.”

“You’re in luck,” Burr stood, greeting him. “I am to rent some apartments just down the street.”

Hamilton looked at him, “Where?”. 

Burr sat again, pulling out the same newspaper Livingston had, “I will invite you over when the sale is complete. Have you seen this, General? The public opinion is turning too quickly against us.”

Hamilton put his elbows on the table, rubbed his eyes. The sound of the ravens made his head hurt.

\-----

Burr’s invitation arrived in the mail on March 30th, slipped in between the official court summons. Hamilton opened the letter and knew, before even reading the post-script, who it was from and what would be expected.

He walked back into his office, taking his thumb and trailing it along the pretty, feminine script. Hamilton took another look at the address, not recognizing it. _Must be his new apartments._ He slipped it behind the court summons for further inspection, later. 

The facts ate at him-- the terrible business of the cursed well and the violent crimes and the man attached to it like a spiderweb -- implications visible in some lights and not in others. At the sight of Burr’s letter his mind traveled back to last summer and Burr's evil scheme and how it all felt similar to the energy around him now.

_He used you, Hamilton._

The end of the previous century had been too much--the summer too intense and prolonged-- and he and Burr shared the same vices, they had come to realize. It was apparent to everyone except them, Hamilton discovered-- embarrassed but titillated. The combination of anger and admiration making a confusing mess inside his chest.

It all added up: Adams’ inappropriate tirades against them and his childish attempt to put Burr in a commanding military position opposite Hamilton. 

_Hadn’t_ that _been enough of a dare?_

Jefferson’s indirect political innuendos, sending Burr out to court him with expensive dinners and woo him to their cause, or at least drop his. 

It was probably for the better, Hamilton thought to himself. 

_Better this way than standing in front of a gun._

It was all so _stupid_ , thinking back on it, in the face of this _real_ crime for which Livingston had begged they both act as legal representation. Fighting against him was useless. The continuous cycle of meeting Burr again and again and again in different contrived scenarios; what would the next one look like? Which of their shapeless enemies would pit them against each other this time? 

Hamilton sighed, dropped the invitation off onto a side table just by the front door, stopping in front of the hall mirror to make sure everything was in its place. He straightened his vest and necktie. If this was how their shared universe made its intentions known, then so be it. Hamilton was never one to shy away from the truth, either. 

An involuntary smile crept across his face. It _had_ gotten easier, each time they met. Tonight would be the night for apologies and shared brilliance. A third bit of practice; discovering ways to make themselves understood without using words, that so often got misinterpreted. No, this way was better. 

His body ached for it. He almost felt guilty, using the unnatural death of that poor girl as an excuse to feel alive.

In two hours, Hamilton had found his way to the new location, knocked once, and the door swung open. 

“Punctual soldier,” Burr smiled, stepping out of the way and lifting a hand into the hall. “Come see my new bachelor’s quarters.”

Hamilton removed his coat and hung it, looking around, “Luxurious. How are you affording this?”

“Right to the point. How I love that,” Burr muttered, pulling him close, kissing each cheek in greeting. _When did he start doing_ that? Then, “I am splitting the cost with my uncle. He allowed me use of it until the end of April.”

Hamilton touched the finely etched wood; an intricate design on the banisters at the base of the stairs in front of them. 

“How do you have time to keep your own personal brothel and run door to door for Jefferson?” He asked, leaning one hand against the staircase. 

“Magic.” Burr crossed his arms and smiled. “Would you like a tour?”

“As long as we don’t run into any of your _guests_ ,” Hamilton said, his voice fading as he ascended the stairs. He heard some rustling, his curiosity piqued. A much younger man appeared from one of the bedrooms, his hair loose and his hands covered in paint. 

“Oh!” he blushed spectacularly, “Mr-- General Hamilton-- I didn’t know--”

“It’s alright, Mr. Vanderlyn,” Burr was right behind him, “General Hamilton and I have some business to attend to. I am afraid the painting will have to be put on hold for the evening.”

Hamilton paused, looking from man to man, “I apologize if I am interrupting.”

Vanderlyn swallowed, nervously putting a strand of loose hair behind his ear and shifting his weight. Burr smiled broadly and put his arm around the young artist. 

“General, do you know of Mr. Vanderlyn, here? He is such a promising talent. I have commissioned a portrait. You must see--”

Hamilton chewed a spot on the inside of his cheek. 

“A protege?” He asked. Vanderlyn looked up and nodded sheepishly, while Burr made his way to the bedroom. “What are you, the Medicis?”

Vanderlyn turned to call after Burr, “I will just be...heading out, then? I suppose?”

Burr popped out of the bedroom, “If you don’t mind, John. Our engagement will have to wait until this blasted trial is over. If General Hamilton can work his magic I suspect it will take less than a week. General-- come see--”

Vanderlyn gave one last look to Hamilton--who suddenly felt as though he were reading a book in a different language-- and brushed past him, smelling like turpentine and expensive cologne. 

Hamilton looked around: two bedrooms on the south end, one on the north. He followed Burr into one of the north bedrooms, and found him studying a canvas. He smiled at Hamilton, indicating he come see.

“Well? What do you think?”

Hamilton walked over to the painting, stared at it and felt his pulse quicken. 

“The eyes,” he said without thinking. He felt Burr walk up behind him.

“I sent young Vanderlyn to Europe to study. I think he was a good investment.”

Hamilton turned, “Vanderlyn...is he…”

“...Is he what?” Burr’s expression turned into mock-offense. “Out with it, General. You want to know if I am his father? You are transparent.”

 _“Well?”_ Hamilton widened his eyes. Then, sarcastically, “I am sorry for implying your virility, I guess.”

Burr rolled his eyes and turned to look back at the painting, “He is _not_ my son, for Christ’s sake. What do you think of the colors?”

“A bit too much brown. But I suppose he’s not finished,” Hamilton replied, noncommittally. He changed the subject.

“Which is the office we will be using tonight?” Hamilton lifted his stack of notes. He walked back out into the hallway, over to the other north end bedroom, sticking his head inside. His breath quickened at the sight of the expensive curtains flanking two wall-to-ceiling windows. The detailed design of the carpet. He reached out and touched the silk bed sheet. 

Burr grabbed his arm, “Not this room. Follow me.” He put his hand on the small of Hamilton’s back, touching just hard enough to set Hamilton’s nerves on a pleasurable edge, pushing him into the third bedroom.

The throw rug was luxurious-- the color of burnt wood, flecked with intricate golden designs. Three wall-to-ceiling windows lined one side of the room, a large floor-length mirror standing in front of them. The deep burgundy curtains hung untied, shielding them from the star-speckled sky. 

Hamilton walked over to the mirror, touching it. _How does it compare to your sad boarding house_?

He made his way to the bed. The same silk sheets as the other rooms, covered in a dark, thick comforter. Six pillows, an extra throw blanket, ornately designed bedposts. _Someone had taken care, here._

“This must be your room. I know you wouldn’t spare any expense. Do you keep those candles lit all night? Wasteful,” Hamilton tsk-tsk’d. 

“What do you think of the chair?” Burr indicated to his favorite object in the room, “It is from last century. It belonged to some disgraced French duke. He was imprisoned for deviancy and his effects sold off.”

Hamilton smiled again, running his hands over the antique, “What do you think _this_ thing has seen?”

He felt Burr standing directly behind him again, “Before we begin, would you like a drink, General?” Without waiting for an answer, he poured a glass of wine for himself, and another for his guest, then raised it. 

Hamilton interrupted, “You love your _toasts_. What will it be tonight? Honest men? A malleable jury?”

“An enjoyable evening,” Burr cut him off, and took a sip. 

“ _Now_ who’s being direct?”

“We both know why you’re here.”

Hamilton swallowed a gulp of his drink, shaking his head and laughing, “Why does everything you say sound like it has a double meaning? I am requesting that we compare our notes so that we are for _once_ on the same page in front of the court. Maybe you have something of mine that I need. Maybe I am here to simply marvel at your new apartments. You don’t know anything. Wipe that infernal smile off your face.”

Burr replied, setting his glass on the nearby dresser, “I have something to show you. Wait there.”

He disappeared again, and came back with a tiny slip of paper. Hamilton studied it, unsure. 

Burr spoke softly, handing it to him, “I have _this_.”

Hamilton took another sip of wine and put his glass down on a small table next to a window, reading, “... _’She think him a Adonis’._..” He made a face and looked up. 

“What do you think?”

“I think your poetry needs a bit of work,” Hamilton laughed, grabbing his wine. 

Burr shook his head, “No, you don’t understand. This was found outside the boarding house where Elma was staying, in the garbage. It was written by someone staying with them. It is written in third person, poor syntax--about someone else.”

Hamilton chewed on this thought, smiling, “I am still imagining you like a little raccoon, riffling through the refuse.”

Burr laughed, swiped the paper back, “--Let’s think about what the implications of this are.”

“Did you go out digging yourself? Or did you send someone from your little band of sycophants--”

“--I believe the word you are searching for is friends, General. They are called friends.”

“Fine. Yes. I am duly impressed. But whatever the case, we cannot use it. The evidence is inadmissible, given it’s...origins,” Hamilton made a face and sat on the edge of the bed, then eyed Burr up and down. “What is your plan, here?”

Burr stepped toward him, “You and I can deduce several things from this. One, that someone was probably watching Levi and Elma. Two, there seems to be an element of jealousy.”

“And three-- the potential jealous rival would have a motive. _Ah...”_ Hamilton stood, closed his eyes and nodded, attaching his train of thought to the other man’s. 

“So, all we need to do is try to discover who the rival might be, and point the jury in the right direction.” Burr smiled at his co-counsel. “Then you will paint them a visual so salacious and tragic they will have to understand.”

Hamilton walked up to him, “Don’t flatter me.”

“You love it,” Burr dropped his voice.

“What is our story?” Hamilton turned and made his way over to the wine, pouring himself another glass. “Start to finish. Drill me, Colonel.”

Burr cleared his throat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, collecting his scattered thoughts. 

“The facts of the case are that sweet Elma came to stay at the boarding house, and Levi seduced her, and they slept together--”

“--How many times?”

Burr stopped, “--Does that matter? Once, twice, fifty times.”

The wine went to Hamilton’s head all at once, and he went on, “I think it was but once. Sometimes that is all it takes to make one mad with lust and jealousy. This rival-- this third party-- they must have heard them, or seen them, or the pair were so wildly oblivious that everyone around them could see what they could not.”

Burr watched the other man, “Perhaps. They were young.”

Hamilton wrapped his fingers around one of the bed’s posts, “How do you think it happened? Elma was a good Christian girl. I can’t imagine she would throw her chastity away for one fuck. There must have been more to it. What do we know of the engagement?” He lifted his glass and indicated toward the notes. 

“Hearsay, mostly. There are no supporting documents,” Burr scanned him. “It seems to be nothing more than the oldest kind of story. As you say-- lust.”

“I have had too much of this. I can’t concentrate,” Hamilton put his glass back down on the table. He rubbed his eyes. _The notes, the case. Focus, Alexander._

_What are you doing here?_

Burr exhaled, slipping a note from Hamilton’s pile and walking it over to him. He stood closely behind him, straightening the paper, holding it out in front of them. He began, softly, “By all accounts they could not keep their hands off of each other. I believe one of the witnesses said they began their illicit affair less than a week after meeting. Now, you and I both know how quickly a person’s passions can overtake them--”

Hamilton turned his head, “--What is that supposed to mean?”

Burr locked eyes with him defiantly, “How long did it take _you_ to decide whether or not to fuck the lovely Mrs. Reynolds? An hour?”

Burr watched Hamilton’s mouth curl into a grin and his stomach flipped. 

“Now, to continue,” he looked back down at the paper and felt Hamilton’s eyes still on him, “I will do my best to paint the picture for _you_. They met in the summer. Perhaps Elma has a brilliant smile. We will never know. But, as you said, Levi instantly fell for her and took her to bed, to the horror of the other boarders, no doubt. General, you know they were Quakers. It must have been deliciously illicit.”

“Adds to the pleasure,” Hamilton managed, trying to focus on the words; an urge beginning to slither around in his abdomen. 

Burr was quiet for a few seconds, gaze darting back and forth around the page, “I once knew of an attorney who found that reenacting the crime helped solve it. Putting oneself in at the scene, metaphorically, mind you. I do not think there was any research to support his hypothesis, but it is an interesting one nonetheless, do you think?”

He raised his eyes to meet Hamilton’s, whose mouth hung slightly open, stained a deep wine-red. Burr felt his breaths. 

“Do you have something to add or are you going to hang there like a corpse?”

Hamilton pulled him in for a kiss as though he’d done it a hundred times. Familiar, tilting his head and feeling the kiss eagerly reciprocated. He pulled away, staring at Burr’s mouth, “How is that?”

“Did you bring a knife?” Burr asked, “Sometimes I can’t honestly tell whether you want to kill me or fuck me.”

“Both.” Hamilton gritted his teeth, holding on to the burning that fanned out across his skin, “I want to do both.”

Burr pulled away, frustratingly calm, “Perhaps that is how our friend Levi felt.”

Hamilton grabbed his collar, “I said... _both_.”

“That’s not possible, Little Hamilton. I’m afraid you’re going to have to make a choice,” Burr grinned, taking Hamilton’s hand from his necktie. He backed over to the bed, sitting down, and looking up at his guest, “Well, General? Who is leading this case?”

“Maybe not possible for _you_ ,” Hamilton said, stepping over to Burr and dropping to his knees. He put a hand on each of Burr’s legs and spread them, inching closer, “Maybe you’ve been with the wrong people. Maybe you’re going about it all wrong.”

“A lot of ‘maybes’ tonight, don’t you think? The jury will never buy it.”

Hamilton pretended not to hear and began unbuttoning Burr’s pants, running a finger lightly, teasingly, over the apparent hardness. Burr swallowed, looking down at him, cheeks flooding with color. 

“Alexander--”

“… _God_ I love the sound of you saying my name. That’s how I know I’ve got you.” He gave Burr a sharp grin, brought his mouth down, pulling the fabric between his teeth. Burr hissed, closed his eyes and tilted his neck back. He felt Hamilton slip a hand under his pants, pulling them down, and immediately taking him into his mouth. 

_“Alexander--”_ Burr moaned. He ran his fingers through the other man’s thick hair and guided him up and down. He whispered, barely able to get the words out, “Slow...slow _down--_ ”

Hamilton pulled away and discarded his shirt, and climbed on top of him. He leaned in and kissed Burr again; imagined alarm bells clanging in the distance, warning shots. He felt the man beneath him harden and struggle at once, moving against the mattress, and the thrill of it made Hamilton's mind blank. 

Burr pushed him off, and regained control-- “I said _slow down._ ”

“Oh, I like that," A wild smile crept across Hamilton’s face, "Fight me. But be _quiet_ about it-- we can’t let the others hear, can we?”

He inched closer; Burr grabbed him by the shoulders and reversed their positions, pushing him back down onto the mattress, grumbling into his ear, “Don’t you want to _enjoy_ it? Christ, Hamilton, you fuck like it’s your job and you’re a busy man. I’m not some back-alley whore.”

Hamilton closed his eyes, laughing. He felt Burr’s lips on his neck, leaving kisses in a trail down the front of his chest. 

“Now who’s too eager,” Hamilton whispered. His smile turned into a moan at the sensation of the other man’s mouth wrapping around him, moving rhythmically, up and down, aggravatingly slow. Burr used his other hand to grip it; the tightness made Hamilton’s breath catch in his throat.

He trailed his tongue along the length of the shaft, stopping at the head, pausing, grinning, “I could make you last all night, you know... _Alexander.”_

_“Don’t stop--”_

Burr sat back, eyeing the other man as if he were observing his handiwork. Hamilton propped himself up on his elbows, hair askew, breathless and high-colored. 

“What are you _doing_?” His eyes widened pleadingly, “Why did you stop?”

“I am thinking.”

Hamilton groaned in frustration, “What is that supposed to mean? Let us be done with the thing so we can get back to work,” He protested and Burr crawled back on top of him, and the rational thoughts dissipated from his mind-- _the scratch of his expensive clothes; the smell of his skin, the taste of wine on his breath--_ the small details that flittered in and out of Hamilton's mind, reminding him of where he was and who he was with driving him on.

Burr let out another low chuckle, “Shall we pause every thirty seconds to take notes? I don’t _need_ to practice.”

“Your arrogance is infuriating.”

“We can give in to this now or we can fight each other all night, either way is pleasurable to me,” Burr countered again, staring at the man beneath him before moving in for another kiss. 

“Who is who in this contrived scenario, then? Who is the... _ah_...debaucher...and who is the debauchee, so to speak?” Hamilton asked, breathing into Burr’s mouth. “What are we going to do, flip a coin?”

Burr pulled away abruptly again, “Yes.”

Hamilton paused. He stared at the man above him, who straddled him, pinning him to the mattress, “I was not serious.”

“I am,” Burr reached into his pocket, pulled out a tiny silver coin, flashing in the candlelight, “Half-pence.”

“What kind of idiot would leave something this _important_ to chance--,” Hamilton reached out, swiping, missing. 

Burr cut him off. “Heads and I’m in charge. Tails and you are.”

“This is crude.” 

Burr leaned down and kissed his neck again, getting harder-- “Yes it is.” He brought his mouth to Hamilton’s ear, grinding into him, “I thought you _liked_ crude. Dirty. Wild…” he pressed his groin into Hamilton’s, matching the pace of his hips’ movement with each word, “....You... _love_ it… you love the _danger_ of it...”

Hamilton felt weak again, muscles both tense and relaxed. He reached down and grabbed his cock, stroking it. He moaned, “Just flip the fucking coin already.”

Slowly, Burr turned the coin over between his fingers. He placed it on his thumb, flicking it up into the air, and catching it, slamming it down onto the back of his left hand. He looked down at Hamilton and smiled. 

“Any guesses?”

Burr stared at the man sprawled out, disheveled and desperate, beneath him, between his legs. The flushed skin, the heart beating through his chest, the contrast of his caramel hair against the cream-colored sheets. Burr could almost devour him right there. 

“If you don’t tell me what the result is I’m going to scream until someone finds us,” Hamilton whispered.

Burr took a peek at the results, lifting his right hand, taking a small peek. In an instant his face spread into a wicked grin, “You’re going to be screaming regardless.”

 _“Oh…”_ Hamilton replied, returning the smile. “I don’t trust you. Show me.”

Burr shook his head, no, “...You’re just going to have to trust me.” He kissed the man beneath him again before he could argue.

The word echoed in the back of Hamilton’s mind- _-trust!_ He matched the pace of Burr’s kiss with his own, opening and closing his mouth and tasting his tongue. Imagined, in some dark crevice of his mind, that this must have been what the two doomed lovers felt, stealing away into a bedroom and locking the door to keep out their morals. Without breaking contact, Burr reached to his left, blindly, hand on a drawer of the nightstand next to them. 

Hamilton heard the sound of it being opened; a glass bottle, the sound of a cap being removed. 

“Ready at all times, aren’t you…” Hamilton muttered between kisses; Burr’s open mouth, a hair’s breadth away from his. Hamilton goaded the man above him, “This is where you take your whores. I’m just one of hundreds.”

Burr bit his lip, removed his breeches with one hand, eyes locked on the man beneath him like a predator. He flung the pants to the floor and covered his palm with the oil, stroked himself slick and wet, “You’re my favorite whore.”

“Show me.”

Burr placed one last searing kiss on Hamilton’s mouth, lingering, listening intently to the soft, pleading moans. He grabbed his thigh-- spread his legs, positioned himself and slid into the other man achingly slow. Hamilton hissed, mouth opening and closing inarticulately, his mind a mess of perverted thoughts-- _it’s too easy. You’re so good at it, aren’t you. Fuck --_ the other man pushed deeper, carefully, sliding in and out. 

Burr steadied himself against the mattress, one hand gripping the sheets, the other grabbing Hamilton’s chin, spitting, low, “Look at me when I’m fucking you.”

Hamilton opened his mouth, unable to articulate a response. He locked eyes with the man above him, a writhing pleasure spreading out from his groin; unbearably hard. He throbbed and stirred at the words, “Say it again.”

 _“Look at me when I’m fucking you,”_ Burr growled, hand slipping down Hamilton’s neck, skin blotching pink.

Hamilton obeyed, reaching down and grabbing himself, stroking, determined not to break eye-contact. As if on a dare, Burr sped up. The abstract noises around him made Hamilton feel crazy: the sound of the mattress groaning and creaking beneath them, the headboard slamming into the wall with every pound, the sweating press of their skin. 

“Harder, _please…_ ” Hamilton begged in an unhinged litany. He increased the pace of his stroking hand, teasing his head with his thumb, wet and tender and close. 

Burr slammed into him, tearing the sheets from the mattress. He swore and grabbed the headboard with his left hand, Hamilton’s neck with his right, bringing their faces together once more, “Look at me. I want to see your beautiful eyes when you come for me. _Look at me_ , Alexander.”

Hamilton obeyed once more, opening his mouth in a silent scream, coming at the sound of his own name. In the next second he was crying out, spilling himself on his stomach and fist. He couldn’t help it; closed his eyes and let out another torturous moan, climax coursing over him in waves. 

“Fuck me. _Fuck me--Aaron--_ ” Hamilton felt tears well in his eyes; it had _never_ felt this good. Burr fucked him until he didn’t care if the entire city heard them. The idea of someone coming upon them, discovering their secret, practically made him hard again. He pulled at himself, emptying every drop, biting his lip and keeping his defiant gaze locked. 

Burr choked on his words, the sight of Hamilton falling apart made him crazy and in a few agonizing seconds his own mind went blank. He failed at their game, breaking eye-contact and closing them against Hamilton’s shoulder; the pleasure so intense Burr thought he was going to pass out. He muffled a scream into Hamilton’s neck, refusing to pause or slow his pace, fucking himself through it and letting the hot, wet liquid pour out of him.

“ _Alexander…_ ” he managed, breathless. He finally slowed his rhythm, looking back down into Hamilton’s eyes, bringing his hand to Hamilton’s jaw again, softer, kissing and muttering into his open mouth, “Alexander...your eyes...my little poet…”, the words Burr kept hidden in the back of his mind now tumbling out incoherently.

“That feels so good _…reverend... ”_ Hamilton replied quietly, their bodies slowly coming down, still moving together. He felt a smile, almost sheepish, creep across his face, his muscles weakened. He steadied his breath, lips parted and welcoming.

Burr pulled his mouth away, sliding out slowly, hissing. He brought his body back down atop Hamilton’s, the feeling of their skin together making him hot again. He grabbed Hamilton’s arm, leaving goosebumps. Hamilton stirred beneath him; Burr felt the lightness bubble up inside of his chest.

Hamilton whispered, “You might want to watch where you lay.”

“Ah…” Burr moaned, lifting himself up and looking down at Hamilton’s stomach. He laughed quietly, closing his eyes. 

Hamilton watched him reach over to the nightstand and open the drawer again, pulling out a thin white handkerchief. Burr reached down and slowly, carefully wiped away the mess, the sight of it causing Hamilton’s stomach to flutter again.

“You _are_ staying the night this time, right?” Burr asked after several seconds of quiet. “I mean whether or not we decide to look at the trial notes. We _can_ , if you insist--”

Hamilton moved, ignoring the question, “Help me get under the blankets. There’s a chill.”

Burr pushed himself up, pulling the comforter and sheets back and getting beneath them, skin warm and flush against Hamilton’s. He settled into the other man: Hamilton on his back, Burr on top of him, head resting on his chest. His breath hitched; the familiar butterfly feeling creeping into his lower abdomen. 

Burr turned his head and spoke, low, into Hamilton’s shoulder, “I lied to you, General. It _was_ tails, not heads.”

Hamilton groaned, writhing beneath Burr’s mouth; the exquisite humiliation of being deceived, mingling with Burr's precise knowledge of how he liked it. Hamilton said carelessly, “I _should_ slit your throat.”

Burr responded in kind, “Maybe you’ll kill me tonight. Do you still have it in you?”

“Keep grinding against me like that and I just might.”

Burr leaned over the side of the bed, fished around in his crumpled pants, pulling out a pocket watch. Hamilton watched him, delightfully intrigued. Burr studied the clock, then clicked the watch shut, “Give me one hour, and I will be ready for you again.”

“An hour?” Hamilton mocked him. “An _hour?”_

“ _Do_ you have somewhere to be?” Burr didn’t wait for an answer. He shook his head and put a finger on Hamilton’s mouth, “No. Shut up-- you don’t. You don’t have anywhere to be because I checked your agenda against the court records. I even asked Livingston.” He slowly moved his hand away, “...Now. Wine?”

Hamilton fell back, laughing, “Fuck you, Colonel.”

Burr tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist, “Fifty-three more minutes.” He pushed back the sheets, swung his legs over the side of the bed and hastily pulled up his pants, not taking care to button or fasten them. 

Hamilton eyed the sight of it hungrily: the fabric sitting low on Burr’s hips, exposing his lower abdomen tantalizingly. He remembered Burr younger, as a soldier-- imagined taught muscles stretching and sweating.

Burr filled the two wine glasses and brought them back over to the bed, handing one to Hamilton who sat upright and took a sip. Burr kicked off his pants again and rejoined the other man beneath the sheets. He swallowed, placing his glass on the nightstand, then turning to look at Hamilton. 

“What?”

Burr smiled, “Nothing. Just enjoying myself. What do we think, now? Do we have a different perspective on this ugly case or was all that for nothing?”

Hamilton licked his lips, letting the bitter taste of the wine linger on his tongue-- letting it go to his head and make him dizzy again. He took another long sip, downing the entire glass at once, wanting to transform himself into something different and savage. 

Burr watched him and laughed, “Do you want to be sick? Give me that glass or you’re going to be useless tomorrow,” he reached out and took it. 

Hamilton’s head spun, “I want to be insane tonight... _reverend_.”

“You’re the only one allowed to call me that. If it were anyone else, I’d beat their brains out,” Burr leaned in and kissed him, deep, “...Poet.”

“Give me another glass of wine.”

“Ah, ah,” Burr whispered, “I want you hard as a rock for me. No more alcohol.”

Hamilton laughed again, “How many more minutes? This is torturous.”

Burr quieted him again with kisses, “Keep calling me reverend and it might just do the trick.”

“ _Reverend…_ ” Hamilton purred. His pretensions behind him, he maneuvered himself on top of Burr, “...Reverend...I come to you in my time of _need…_ ”

The glint had returned to Burr’s eye. Hamilton searched him; the dilated pupils that signaled round two of their game had begun. He felt his blood flowing towards his cock again, the sight of the man beneath him driving him crazy with lust.

“Reverend, hear my confession.”

“Confess.”

“I have been _tortured_ with lust. Every beautiful face I see inspires me with the most vile, debauched imagery,” Hamilton spread his legs, riding the man beneath him, slowly, coaxing, “When I see _you_ , Reverend, I am hit with such a longing, I can barely contain myself--”

Burr gripped Hamilton’s waist, thumbs pressing into his skin, staring down, “How are you hard again? How _do_ you do that?”

Hamilton smiled and reached for the small bottle of oil on the nightstand, “I can’t tell you my secret.”

“Keep confessing. I am on the verge of discovering your secret on my own.”

Hamilton bent down, hips still grinding rhythmically, slicking himself, whispering, “Spread your fucking legs. I’m not waiting anymore.”

He steadied himself against the mattress again, the sheets around them rippling like waves. Burr closed his eyes, waiting for the dull pinch, the hard, unforgiving pressure. Several slow minutes and sacrilegious mutterings later-- and Hamilton was fucking him, whispering drunkenly into his ear.

“I can’t help myself,” Hamilton groaned between thrusts, “I want to fuck you and kill you.” 

Burr wrapped his arms around him, feeling his cock swell, amazed at how _effortless_ it was, how he suddenly felt like he could die this way, the night stretching on for eternity of unbearable satisfaction, “Deeper... _please_...right _there--_ ”

It was Hamilton’s turn to grip the headboard so tight he thought he’d crush it, knuckles turning white against the dark mahogany wood, the sound of the bed groaning beneath them again for the second time in an hour making him mad with desire. He picked up his pace arrogantly, a deep, evil part of his mind desperate to show off his unyielding libido; _they compare you two, you know._ The voice in his head urged him, compounded with the lecherous, drunken thoughts. 

“God...that feels _so_ good,” Burr’s vocal cords strained, “ _Please…_ ”

Hamilton picked up his pace, _“This is all I want--all the time--”_

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and it compounded his desire so much he felt delirious. He wanted to break the bed frame, send them both crashing to the floor in a flurry of violence and ardor. He grabbed Burr’s jaw and turned his head to the left, forcing him to watch their reflections. 

“I want you to watch me fuck you,” Hamilton spat, never breaking his brutal rhythm. 

Burr couldn’t focus; he closed his eyes against the onslaught, his thoughts spinning out of control-- _you could come again. He’s going to make you come again. It’s been fifteen minutes and he’s going to fuck you so good you can’t help yourself--_

Hamilton bit him savagely, and read his mind like a demon, spitting curses at him, "You’re going to watch me fuck you and you’re going to come again, because you love it.”

Burr opened his mouth, preparing for the next explosion of pleasure as the pressure gathered between his legs. He grabbed himself with his right hand and the sheets with his left, bucking his hips upwards. Hamilton adjusted his thrust, the slightly different angle hitting the exact spot Burr needed and he cried out. 

“Please, _God--_ right _there--”_ Burr felt the grip on his neck tighten. He opened his eyes to stare at himself in the mirror being defiled, the sweat from their exertions glistening in the candlelight. Hamilton fucked him as deep as he could and the combination of the shaking bed against the wall and the nightstand caused one of the wine glasses to fall to the floor. 

At the sound of the shattering glass, Hamilton hit the spot again and Burr came in bursts. _He’s making you come again. He fucked you so good--so good--_

 _“So good,_ Alexander... _yes--_ ” Burr’s carnal thoughts spilled out of his throat like the wetness on his stomach.

Hamilton moaned into him, finally breaking his stare from the mirror, pressing himself impossibly deep into the other man and holding it there like a bayonet, making sure Burr was dead and spent and ruined. Burr moved and writhed against the destroyed sheets.

The pair slowly came down again, a mess of lust and sweat. 

Hamilton lifted himself, looking down at the man beneath him, breathless and untamed, his hair standing up at odd ends. He came in for a kiss and Burr returned it, grinding against him and dragging both hands up and down Hamilton’s back.

“How did you manage _that…_?” Burr mumbled, awestruck, keeping their mouths together. 

Hamilton silently tasted him for several more seconds, trying to organize his thoughts; giving up. “I don’t know…”

“You’re incredible.”

At this, Hamilton smiled, “Do you have another handkerchief?”

Burr draped an arm across his eyes, “In the drawer. Be careful of the glass.”

Hamilton cleaned up the mess, a tiny grin affixed to his mouth. He dragged it across Burr’s midsection, taking care, as though he were cleaning a spill on his dinner table. 

“That is enough learning for one night. My thoughts are a jumbled mess, General, and I think you know it. Throw that wretched thing out and come sleep with me.”

Hamilton acquiesced and then set his attentions on the sheet that had been torn from the corner of the bed. He made a face, “How much were these? They’re ruined.”

“I don’t care. It was for a good cause,” Burr grabbed the other man’s arm, pulling him back under the covers. He dropped his voice, “Lay with me tonight. Stay here and keep me warm. I don’t want to think about such mundane things until daybreak.”

“Hmm…” Hamilton smiled and settled into him again, pressing their bodies together, “... _How_ am I supposed to sleep when we have accomplished nothing with regards to the morning's trial?”

Burr fanned his fingers through Hamilton’s hair, “I can tell you a pretty little story to settle your nerves.”

“Something dreadfully boring, no doubt," Hamilton pulled the covers up around them. 

“None of my stories are boring, General, how dare you.”

Hamilton lifted his head slightly, toyed with a loose thread on the lace details of the pillow case, thinking for a moment, “Tell me the story about the mutiny. In the army.”

Burr sighed, stared down at the strands of hair between his fingers; the hair standing on end on Hamilton’s arm. He wrapped his free arm around Hamilton’s back, “Again?”

“I love that story.”

Burr launched into the tale, exaggerating the more heroic bits-- the stupidity of the troops, the bravery of his plan, the sound of his blade slicing through the air and the cracking of the mutineer’s bone-- at this, Hamilton laughed, and shuddered-- more goosebumps-- “I _love_ that part, Colonel...I would have done the same…”

Hamilton’s low voice trailed off and his eyes closed, Burr filling his tired mind with visions of glory and their younger days. 

\-----

Hamilton woke up in the middle of the night, hyperventilating at a dream.

He saw the well in his mind, fell down into it, hitting the ice cold water with a painful splash. His eyes sprung open at the falling sensation and he panted into the dark room for several terrifying milliseconds.

After a moment, Hamilton pressed his eyes against the pillow, muscles tensing and relaxing intermittently in the dark room. He was impossibly hard again; the combination of fear and arousal mixing uncomfortably in his mind. He slipped a hand beneath his pants and touched himself, looking at the man laying next him.

The candles had long since burnt out and the only light was the half-moon peeking in through a crack in the hanging curtains. Burr lay on his back, lips full and parted. Hamilton stared at them and tried to remember what he’d seen in his mind before waking.

He adjusted himself against the mattress, hand still working between his legs, taking a deep breath. He bit his lip and smiled; leaned over and placed a kiss on Burr’s exposed shoulder; a small bite.

At this, Burr turned in his sleep, taking a deep breath, slowly waking, “General…” he murmured into the quiet room. 

Hamilton breathed him in, lips against his neck, “I couldn’t sleep.” He paused, stopping there--words failing him.

Burr moved again, stretching, and turned onto his back. Grinning, he stared down at the other man’s groin.

Hamilton came in again, low voice, “I had a dream about you.” He placed a trail of kisses between each softly-spoken word on Burr’s skin, working himself with his right hand, whispering, “I woke up _achingly_ hard for you. What have you _done_ to me?”

Burr turned to face him, grabbing his wrist. He pulled Hamilton’s hand away from his cock and wrapped his own fingers around it, stroking, “Tell me about your dream,” he breathed.

Hamilton leaned into the pleasurable pressure spreading out from between his legs, struggling to remember the lascivious scenes.

“It was...us together like this, alone in some dirty apartment. I imagined fucking you all night, just like this. Trying not to wake the neighbors. Sleeping next to you and feeling you.”

“Are you going to come again?” Burr asked under his breath, flushed, gripping harder and increasing his pace.

“ _Yes…_ ” Hamilton whispered into his open mouth, “Keep touching me, just like that.”

Burr moved his hand up and down deftly, quietly, taking his free arm and wrapping it around the other man, pulling him close. “Right there... _right_ there…” the words were strained and quiet, coming out of Hamilton’s mouth, as it opened and closed intermittently.

Burr quickened his pace, pulling their naked bodies together, rubbing Hamilton until he felt him jerk involuntarily. A loud, desperate moan escaped him, cutting through the quiet bedroom and the sound of the shifting sheets around them. Burr pulled him until he was spent again, fingers damp.

“ _Yes_ ,” Burr muttered into Hamilton’s ear, “Come for me again and again.”

“You make me insane,” Hamilton responded, guttural. He pressed his body into Burr’s. “I can’t sleep anymore, thinking about you. This all I want, all the time.”

“You have the stamina for it,” Burr laughed softly. “You win, Little Hamilton.”

Hamilton rolled onto his back, taking a long, deep breath, speaking as though lost in thought, “I can’t ever get enough.”

Burr leaned into him again, mouth to his ear, “Run away with me. Leave everything. Somewhere out west. No one will know.” He dragged a hand up and down the other man’s stomach, pausing at Hamilton’s rapidly beating heart, placing a palm flat against it and feeling the pulse for a few seconds.

Hamilton put a finger to the other man’s lips, “Don’t talk like that. You know I can’t.”

“Just you and I,” Burr pretended not to hear him. He looked at the other man’s exposed body; the soft sheets, the way Hamilton’s pleading cries resonated in the private bedroom. The sound of him screaming his name. The effortless connection. Burr leaned over and kissed him again, prying open his lips with his tongue, murmuring between tastes, “Just you and I… I don’t care where. Away from this unhappy city.”

“Where will we go, Colonel?” Hamilton responded, matching his tone.

 _“Wherever you want.”_ Burr touched himself with a free hand, straining. “I would spend every last penny on you. Destroy my credit. Rot in debtor’s prison just to take you wherever you want to go.”

“A castle in Scotland,” Hamilton laughed softly, “I want you to buy us a castle in the highlands and build a moat around it.”

“I would, with my bare hands,” Burr bit his bottom lip, pressure and heat building again between his legs. 

Hamilton brought his mouth to Burr’s ear, “And we can do _this--_ every night. You can _take_ me wherever you want, however you want it. At all hours. Make me beg for it or let me tie you to the bed and fuck you until you can’t form a single coherent thought--”

 _“God…”_ Burr groaned, coming again. “Yes-- that-- that is _exactly_ what I want _\--_ ”

“I know it is…” Hamilton murmured into his ear, feeling with lecherous delight the warm liquid drip down Burr’s closed fist, and onto his stomach. 

They locked eyes, and Hamilton sighed after a beat, "How am I going to look at you tomorrow?”

“I believe...it _is_ tomorrow, General.” Burr replied smartly, cleaning himself off. 

Hamilton inhaled deeply, settling back into the sheets, “Time means nothing right now. I could get up and go for a walk. _Oh--”_ He stopped short, closing his eyes and frowning, as if remembering something. 

“What is it?” 

Hamilton covered his eyes; Burr could hear his sheepish smile in his low voice, even through the dark, “I came rushing over so fast I forgot to check and see if Livingston had any updates about the trial--he’s going to be furious--”

“--He’ll get over it. Tell him you were busy,” Burr moved so that he was laying on his left side. Hamilton mimicked him, laying on his right. He reached out and touched Burr’s collarbone, shoulder, chest, searching it, hand stopping atop his heartbeat. 

“Did you think there was nothing there, General?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hamilton smiled, teeth white and sharp in the darkness. His expression softened, and he studied Burr, “I want to feel if it is in rhythm with mine. Put your hand on my chest.”

Burr obeyed, “Yes, Doctor, I think it feels right.”

Hamilton’s face split into a grin again. He turned over, so that his back was to Burr, and settled against him. He grabbed Burr’s free arm and wrapped it around him, taking another deep breath. 

“Are you finally going back to sleep?” Burr whispered into the nape of his neck.

“Mmm,” Hamilton answered inarticulately, breaths growing shallow. 

\-----

A pale blue sunrise filled the bedroom, coming in through slits in the curtains’ openings. Burr stirred, awakening from the best sleep he’d had in months, his first breath of the day the scent of Hamilton’s hair. He closed his eyes again briefly, smiling, inhaling. The bed felt softer; the sheets felt smoother. The late March morning bloomed around them. He listened to the sounds of the birds calling out to each other in the budding tree branches outside their window.

Hamilton moved, moaning in his sleep. His muscles tensed and he slowly came to, mouth pressed against the pillow, “What time is it?”

Burr reached across him for the pocket watch, flipping it opening and rubbing his tired eyes in the dim light, “Six.”

Hamilton made another noise, “Two hours until court.”

“Two hours more that we can lay here,” Burr pressed into him, kissing the spot between Hamilton’s shoulder blades. He took a finger and dragged it up and down the other man’s arm, massaging it intermittently.

“That feels good,” Hamilton breathed. He slipped an arm beneath his pillow. Burr studied him in the dusky, flattering light: hair askew, sleep lines criss-crossing his cheek, skin flushed and warm. He was suddenly overcome with affection for him and placed a kiss on Hamilton’s head. 

Hamilton’s deep sigh, muffled voice, “We have to get up. We have to get ready. We have much to go over.”

“Not for a bit, not just yet,” Burr trailed his fingers from Hamilton’s arm, slipping underneath it to caress his abdomen, sinking down below his pelvic bone-- the fluttering muscles -- _just a few millimeters--_

Hamilton caught Burr’s hand before it traveled any lower, “What are you doing?”

Burr’s breath quickened, “Should we try for a third round?”

Hamilton was fully awake now, the manic energy alight on his face as he stared at the other man in the dim room, half-smile, “Do you think you can?”

“I won’t be able to concentrate today.” Burr replied, low. “I can’t even be near you anymore. I am useless.”

“I will not have you humiliating me in front of the state of New York,” Hamilton grinned wider, kissing him on the lips, and ducking his head beneath the blankets. In another second, Burr felt Hamilton’s warm, wet mouth around him, sucking. He braced himself against the sheets, grabbing them in bunches and swearing. 

_“_ Christ _…”_ Burr hissed, lifting his hips. He brought a hand beneath the blankets and grabbed a handful of Hamilton’s hair, forcing his mouth deeper. He closed his eyes and his pulse quickened, “... _There_ , Alexander...”

It was impossible to last longer than a few moments. Burr swore, words tumbling out nonsensically; the firm tongue against his head, teasing it. The tightness. The build-up. He couldn’t last, it was over, he was finished and Hamilton had killed him--

 _“Alexander…”_ Burr moaned loudly, coming again in jerks and spasms, his mind delirious with pleasure. He moved against the sheets, holding Hamilton’s’ mouth in place while he filled it-- _dirty, depraved, you’re disgusting, you’re vile_ \-- fucking his hips up again to savor every second, _“...Keep your mouth just there…good boy...”_

Burr’s mouth opened and his eyes closed. He managed another cry of pleasure, to a guttural laugh from beneath the sheets. He pulled Hamilton’s hair, shoved himself deeper-- “ _Swallow_ it.”-- and Hamilton obeyed. 

In the next minute Hamilton reappeared from beneath the covers, his mouth pink and swollen and wet, sneering under his breath, “I love the taste.”

“You love the taste,” Burr mimicked, pulling the swollen mouth onto his own. His mind replayed the scene and before he could formulate another rational thought was repaying Hamilton’s act with his own: ducking beneath the covers and sucking him dry.

Hamilton returned the same devilish words, the same graceless moans and the same desperate thrusts of his hips. Not to be outdone, Burr worked him ruthlessly with his mouth, wanting to see how fast he could make Hamilton come, and how loud he could make him scream. The feel of Hamilton’s fingers through his hair; the sight of him spent and hyperventilating after he was finished. 

Burr laughed, wiping his mouth, “Three times, Little Hamilton.”

“What kind of monster keeps count?” Hamilton draped an arm across his eyes, chest still rising and falling from his climax, smiling. “I need a bath.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely,” Burr closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoisting himself up into a sitting position. 

“The hearing starts at ten. I want to be there at eight for any preliminary adjustments.” Hamilton muttered after a minute. He looked around at the state of the room: their clothes intermingling randomly on the floor, the shattered wine glass, the faint smell of alcohol _\--_ Hamilton wanted to laugh at the disarray. 

“Disgusting,” he muttered, sitting up and moving the covers off his legs. He shivered, “Would you mind stoking that fire?”

Burr leaned down and threw a shirt at him, “Put your clothes on and you won’t be cold.”

Hamilton caught it and shook it out, studying it, “This is yours, Colonel.”

“Is it?” 

Hamilton laughed, putting it on anyway. He slipped his pants on, “I don’t have a collar like this. But I like it. Hand me the necktie, there.” He pointed to a crumpled pile of white linen. “It will take us a bit to walk to the courthouse. What time is it now?”

“Almost seven. What is it with you and time? I don’t like feeling rushed,” Burr buttoned his shirt up, wincing at the bruise on his shoulder. He tucked the tail of it into his pants, straightening them. He walked over to a wardrobe and pulled out a vest, slipping it on. Hamilton watched him, expression falling. 

“Oh, no. I don’t think I wore a waistcoat here last night…”

“You didn’t,” Burr reached into the wardrobe again, pushing some clothes out of the way, “Take one of mine.”

Hamilton came over and looked at the selection, eyes darting back and forth, hand reaching out and rifling through, “I don’t look good in brown. Makes me look peaked.”

“I have one for you. You should wear the dark green,” Burr handed it to him, studying him. 

Hamilton paused again, taking it, and frowning, “This is...this is _mine_.”

“No it isn't. It’s from the tailor’s. I bought it two weeks ago.”

“No, this is _mine--_ ” Hamilton’s face cracked into a grin, and he pulled the vest to his chest, “I am sure of it.” He slipped it on and turned his back to Burr, “Fasten the ties back there, would you? The fifth one from the bottom is loose, isn’t it.”

Burr stifled a chuckle, sighing, “Yes, General Hamilton, you are correct.”

Hamilton turned and faced him, “I told you. How it ended up in your depressing wardrobe is beyond me. Let’s go, please.”

“Your _notes_ , General--” 

Hamilton stopped at the bedroom door and put a hand on his eyes, “Thank you, my God.”

“That is why you should just memorize everything.” Burr put a finger to his temple. Hamilton ushered him out of the bedroom and back down the stairs in a flurry of movement and protestations. 

“That is _mind-boggling_ to me. Trusting yourself not to forget anything. That is absolute madness,” Hamilton reached the bottom of the stairs, and stopped to take one last look up. 

Burr slipped a hand around his arm, dropping his voice, “Memorizing?”

_“Ah--”_

“That’s what I thought,” Burr laughed, pulling him towards the front door. “Burn it into your memory, General. There will not be many nights like that in our near future, unless you stop ignoring my dinner invitations.”

“If I want _dinner_ , I’ll answer them,” Hamilton shot back, resting his hands on the doorknob. He locked eyes with Burr, expression darkening, “Should we…” he raised a hand, gesticulating, “...What if someone were to see us this morning?”

Burr pursed his lips and exhaled, “We greet them.”

“You should leave first. Then I will trail some yards behind.”

Burr barked a laugh, “General Hamilton.”

 _“Colonel Burr,”_ he responded, turning pink. “I am not interested in lurid speculation or evil rumors. You go first and I will follow and we will not be seen together.”

“Well they’re not exactly _rumors_ , are they?”

“I’m going to push you down your front stairs.”

The pair was interrupted by a knock, and Hamilton jumped, turning white. Several milliseconds of panic, and he whispered, “Where do I go? What excuse do I have to--”

“--Colonel Burr? It’s Henry Livingston-- I was hoping-- Look, I know you’re in there. Please let me in. I need to see you before court commences--” Livingston wriggled the doorknob, and Hamilton looked around desperately. 

“You’re not going to hide like a common criminal,” Burr hissed through his teeth. “It’s Livingston, for God’s sake. He’s not going to care. He’s known us since we were boys--”

Hamilton widened his eyes and matched the other man’s hushed tone, “ _I have a wife.”_

Burr eyed him up and down, then rolled his eyes. 

“Fine. There-- the dining room, behind that door. Go inside and close it.”

Hamilton obeyed and dipped into the adjoining room, quietly shutting the door. 

Another knock, “Colonel Burr? They told me this was where you were staying, now, apologies for disturbing you at such an early hour but I could not find General Hamilton and it is rather urgent--”

 _“--Henry,”_ Burr said, opening the door and smiling warmly, “No trouble at all. What a lovely way to begin the morning.”

Livingston gave him a brief, strained smile, then, “Again, I apologize for being so brusque, but may I come in?”

Burr lifted his hand, stepping out of the way. Livingston acquiesced, removing his hat and clutching it to his chest. He looked around for a moment and sighed.

“Come out with it, Mr. Livingston. We do have places to be this morning, recall.”

“Yes, of course, apologies, I just…” he stopped, studying the foyer and the coat that hung against the wall near them. He frowned at it, thinking, “...Is that...I swear I saw General Hamilton in the same coat just last week. Has he lent it to you?”

Burr felt his pulse quicken, stepping in front of it, lie formulating quickly, “I liked it so much I got one of my own. Why don’t we start walking, Mr. Livingston? It is customary to get there early.” He put a hand on Livingston’s back and gently pushed him toward the front door. 

Livingston stopped again, eyes landing on a pair of black boots, “Those are-- those are General Hamilton’s shoes, I am _sure_ of it-- I _just_ saw him--”

Behind the closed doors to the dining room, Hamilton swore under his breath, putting his head against the wall and closing his eyes. He deliberated internally for several seconds, the sound of Burr’s glib lies and Livingston’s protestations filtering in and out of his ears. He blushed, looking up, running a hand through his hair to flatten it and brushing himself off. He took a deep breath, and opened the door. 

“Good _morning_ , Mr. Livingston,” Hamilton smiled broadly. He looked at the two other men: Livingston, wide-eyed and Burr, pausing, waiting for Hamilton’s next move. 

“Good...morning...General…” Livingston replied slowly. “What a lovely coincidence. What time did you get here? I have been trying to get ahold of you for half the night.”

Hamilton put a hand on his shoulder, “Before dawn. You know I can never sleep before a trial.”

Livingston looked back and forth between the two men, “...Do I?’

Hamilton ignored the question, “What brings you out so early?”

“Now just wait--” Livingston shook him off, “What is going on here? Why was I not invited to this meeting? If there are legal questions to be discussed we should all be included. I know you two have a certain way of doing things--”

“--You are correct, Mr. Livingston. General Hamilton and I work best on our own. I had hoped you wouldn’t take offense,” Burr stepped forward, grabbing Livingston by his hand and clasping it. “Really, it is nothing. General Hamilton has _copious_ notes he can share with you. Now, please, let us talk about your matter.”

Livingston made a face and looked at both men in turn, again. Closing his eyes briefly, and then opening them, “Yes. _Fine_. Anyway-- I came to tell you that there is an issue with the jury selection. It seems that in the whole city of New York there is not a single person to be found who does not have some sort of bias for or against the defendant--”

Hamilton interrupted him, waving a hand, “-- That does not scare me.”

“It _doesn’t?”_ Livingston looked at him. 

“Nor me. What else have you got for us?” Burr cut in. 

“What exactly do you think is going to happen, here? With a biased jury. We will be humiliated.”

“No one is getting humiliated today, Livingston,” Hamilton responded, pushing him out the front door. “There is not a single man on God’s green earth who is unbiased. That is all part of the fun.”

“ _Fun?_ Have you lost your mind? This is our reputation on the line!” Livingston descended the steps, looking back at the men following him, dumbstruck, “What has gotten into both of you? Burr, I am sorry to say I expected this sort of cavalier behavior from you but not from Mr. Hamilton...”

Despite Livingston’s continued reservations, the trio reached the courthouse at five-past eight and were welcomed by a large crowd that had already gathered to see the spectacle. Livingston shook himself free from his co-council, red-faced and still muttering under his breath, “Irresponsible, careless, negligent-- I will _not_ be made a fool of by you two”-- walking inside ahead of them.

Hamilton skirted several on-lookers and ascended the steps, excusing himself. Burr followed suit, shutting the doors behind him with a soft click, latching it. Outside, the din of the people began to pick up.

“I cannot believe the crowd.” Hamilton muttered, brushing himself off. “What do they think they’re going to see? Acrobatics?”

Burr stepped up behind him, inaudible to the others in the room, “You’re not that flexible.”

Hamilton swung his head around, eyes widened warningly. 

Livingston walked over, interrupting them, “I see Coleman’s already here. Blasted idiot. Look at him over there,” He crossed his arms and stood by Burr and Hamilton, “Ah, Christ, here he comes...”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the journalist grinned, phony and wide, looking at each man in turn. “How are you feeling this morning? Have you heard about the jury selection?”

“Yes, we have. And no, we’re not worried in the slightest, are we, General?” Burr replied, a little too loudly. 

Coleman eyed him, _“No?_ Would you like that on record?”

“Yes,” Hamilton cut in, “Write whatever you want, Coleman. You have my blessing.”

“Now wait just a _moment--_ ” Livingston lifted a finger to protest and Coleman cut him off. 

“Really! And here I was thinking you were still the same old Hamilton-- stodgy and uptight and insufferable. What changed?” Coleman asked sarcastically, pulling out a quill. Hamilton’s expression turned dark, and the journalist went on, “What has you out and about so early? Bright-cheeked and giddy like a young girl!”

“We are simply excited to begin, Mr. Colman. Now, if you don’t mind,” Burr tried to end the conversation, and the journalist turned his attacks on him. 

“You know, Mr. Burr, I have just had the most interesting exchange with your friend James Cheetham. He says he knows you so well, and I was wondering if you had a moment to corroborate some stories,” Coleman looked down at his papers, and Burr put a hand on them. 

“You can tell Mr. Cheetham that if he has any questions for me he can come see me himself,” he replied through gritted teeth. 

Another sly smile from Coleman, “Oh. Delightful. I will tell him _exactly_ that.”

The journalist walked off, and Hamilton exhaled, “Why him, of all people?”

“He’s going to transcribe the thing. He has every right to be here. But we don’t have to like it,” Livingston replied, “Come, let us take our seats-- just there.” He pointed to a bench on the far side of the room. 

They slid into the bench one-by-one, Burr pushing Livingston in first, “You don’t mind the far end, do you? General Hamilton and I have worked some notes out between us and I think it would work best if he and I sat together.”

“No, I don’t care,” Livingston responded tiredly. He opened his leather case and took out his own notes, examining them. 

Hamilton used Livingston’s distraction to lean into Burr, whispering, “What do you think Coleman knows?”

“It’s not Coleman you need to worry about. He won’t do anything to upset your federalist friends,” Burr muttered. “It’s Cheetham. He’s been trailing me for weeks now. I swear the man is creeping behind me every time I take a breath.”

Hamilton sighed softly, closing his eyes, “...Yes, about that, I--”

“--You what?” Burr turned in his seat. 

“...I may have-- _accidentally_ \-- let some _intimations_ about you slip at a dinner last year...it was the blasted well business and I was so angry, I’m sorry-- let’s just-- we can talk about it later,” Hamilton’s voice was low and rushed, his excuses jumbled. Next to him, he felt Burr stiffen.

_“And you’re choosing to tell me about this now?”_

“It is not as bad as you think, Colonel, I assure you.”

Burr leaned in closer, anger rising, “So what _exactly_ does Cheetham think I did?”

Hamilton fidgeted, closed his eyes and opened them again, thinking.

“I may have...I cannot say with _certainty--_ but I may have intimated that you and your little band--” Hamilton brought up a hand, blushing spectacularly. Burr’s mouth, agape. Then, Hamilton’s defenses rose, “--Well it’s not exactly _unfounded_ , now is it?”

“What are you two discussing?” Livingston cut in impatiently, voice low. “Anything I should be a part of or should I just leave now?”

“It’s a private matter-- it is nothing--” Hamilton responded quickly. 

Burr shot back, “It most certainly it _not ‘_ nothing’.”

Livingston looked around and then back to his co-council, vocal cords strained and hushed, pointing a finger, “If you two could please just put aside whatever petulant misunderstanding you’ve cooked up for the next several hours so that we may _do our jobs as public servants,_ that would be beneficial I think, don’t you?”

Hamilton made a face and leaned back in the seat. Burr clenched his jaw. 

“Look. They’re leading the defendant in. Do you see him? That’s who we’re representing,” Livingston added acidly. “Stand up.”

The sound in the courtroom dissipated almost immediately as the judge, Lansing, entered and sat at his bench. The prisoner, Levi Weeks, a scrawny, surly faced man in dirty clothes, was brought in before the bar and the three defense attorneys sat back down, turning to watch the announcement from the clerk:

“Levi Weeks,” he called out, “prisoner at the bar, hold up your right hand--” 

The clerk paused and cleared his throat, embarrassed, “--Your _right_ hand, sir--”

“Jesus Christ,” Livingston muttered under his breath, putting a hand to his eyes. 

The clerk cleared his throat again and continued, holding the Bible, “Hearken to what is said to you. These good men who have been called, and who do now appear, are those who are to pass between the people of the State of New York and you, upon your trial of life and death. If, therefore, you will challenge them, your time to challenge is now, before they are sworn-- and you will be heard.”

“That’s who they found for the jury?” Hamilton asked, incensed, looking at the group of men who were being ushered in.

Livingston shot him a look, “I _told_ you, Hamilton.”

“Half of them can’t read a sentence of common English,” Hamilton responded haughtily. Burr nudged him, catching his eye and shaking his head. 

The clerk’s voice rang out in the courtroom again, “Jurors, look upon the prisoner. Prisoner, look upon the jurors. You shall well and truly try, and deliverance make, between the people of the State of New York, and Levi Weeks, the prisoner at the bar, a true verdict according to evidence, so help you God.”

“And there go the Quakers,” Burr commented, watching a group of a dozen or so men stand and leave, giving their religious reasons to Lansing for doing so. He nodded at each one of them, and the court officially excused them. 

Hamilton leaned into Burr, “Can I convert quickly and spare myself?”

Burr lowered his gaze and stifled a laugh. Livingston shot them both another stern look.

Twelve men were chosen, and seated at the side of the room, observing it all, at least ostensibly detached. The clerk turned his attention to them, and read off the charges. 

Hamilton looked at Livingston, “So what was the big problem with the jury? Everything went smoothly.”

Livingston responded, low, “I was merely repeating what Coleman had told me--”

“--Great.” Hamilton hissed. “He was trying to get into our _heads_ , Livingston. You cannot trust journalists.”

“Please be quiet, this is my favorite part,” Burr interjected, shadow of a smile on his mouth. Hamilton rolled his eyes and brought his gaze back to the clerk’s announcement. 

“...And there being, feloniously, willfully, and of malice aforethought, did make an assault, and that the said Levi Weeks, then and there feloniously, willfully, and of malice aforethought, took the said Gulielma Sands into his hands, and did then and there cut, throw and push the decedent, into a certain Well…”

Burr shifted uncomfortably, feeling Hamilton's stare slowly turn to him. 

_“What,_ General?” He whispered. 

“Nothing. Just thought you should pay extra attention to this part. Seems pertinent to your business dealings,” Hamilton whispered back smugly. In a split second he felt Burr pinch him on the waist, and he stifled a yelp. 

_“Would you two stop it,”_ Livingston spat.

“That was my kidney,” Hamilton hissed, straining. 

“...That the said Levi Weeks, not having the fear of God before his eye, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the Devil…”

“Oh I _like_ the sound of that. They added those ‘Devil’ bits, General. Lansing must have a taste for the dramatic today.”

“I think you bruised me,” Hamilton whined, rubbing his lower back, “You know I have kidney issues.”

Burr snuck a hand down to Hamilton’s side, and covertly rubbed his back, “I am sorry, but you were implying something heinous--”

Hamilton’s face burned, and he squirmed, “Get your-- not _here_ for Christ’s sake, Colonel--”

Judge Lansing’s voice cut in, echoing loudly through the hall, “...And how does the prisoner plead?”

Another murderous look from Livingston, and he took the lead, “Not guilty, your honor.”

Lansing eyed the trio: Livingston’s barely-concealed frustration, Hamilton’s red cheeks, Burr’s false concern and vague smile. He looked at them pointedly, then down to his notes.

“I see,” he flipped through a page, then looked at the prosecution. “Mr. Colden, if you will please address the court--”

The assistant attorney general stepped forward, the defense scanned him. Hamilton began to despair, taking Colden in: tall and neatly dressed-- not wearing someone else’s clothing-- well-rested. He sighed audibly and closed his eyes. 

“Oh, he cannot light a candle to us, General,” Burr whispered. He dropped his voice even lower, “Look at him there. _Tense_ and _wound up._ He should have taken a page from our book. _”_

Hamilton could not believe what he was hearing. He opened his mouth, smiling, speechless. Colden’s voice drifted in and out of his ears; blood pounding. He straightened his back and shook the memories of their night from his mind, “Not _now_ , Colonel.”

“...In a cause which appears so greatly to have excited the public mind, in which the prisoner has thought it necessary for his defense, to employ so many advocates distinguished for their eloquence and abilities, so _plainly_ my superiors in learning--” 

The bickering pair were interrupted as Colden’s eyes landed on them. The entire courtroom turned and craned their necks to see the defense team, _specifically_ , a voice in Hamilton’s head corrected him, _to see you and Colonel Burr._ The attorney grinned at them in a way that made Hamilton’s stomach drop. His eyes darted from face to face, searching them for signs of malice or intrigue. 

Beside him, Burr nodded a polite smile. 

Colden turned on his heel, and proceeded, “--So vastly my superiors in learning, _experience_ and professional rank, it is not wonderful that I should rise to address you under the weight of embarrassments which such circumstances actually excite.”

Hamilton brought a hand to his mouth, “What does he mean by that? ‘Experience.’ Why did he stress it that way?”

Burr dropped his voice, “Your suspicions are right, General. He _must_ have seen us last night, that is _truly_ the only explanation.”

“I don’t know why I even bother asking--”

“--But gentlemen!” Colden raised his voice, speaking like an orator. Hamilton stiffened again, heart pounding. “Although the abilities enlisted on the prisoner’s side of this cause are very unequal, I find consolation in the reflection that our tasks are also. While to my opponents it belongs as their duty to exert _all_ their powerful talents in favor of the prisoner, as a public prosecutor, I think I ought to do no more than offer you in its proper order all the testimony the case _affords--”_

Hamilton bit his lip, unable to stay silent, “Why does he say that word. ‘Talents’. That is a loaded word. I don’t like it.”

Livingston responded before Burr could, “Lansing is glaring daggers at you both. _Shut your mouths or you’ll be held in contempt._ ”

He quieted, and allowed Colden to continue his long-winded speech. The courtroom was held in rapt attention at the well-spoken attorney-- except for Hamilton, who felt Burr move closer to him. 

“...The deceased was a young girl, who till her fatal acquaintance with the prisoner, was virtuous and modest and always of a cheerful disposition.”

“Now why does that matter, I ask you?” Burr mumbled. “If she were a sullen little thing would it have made a blasted bit of difference?”

“No, it does not matter. Colden is theatrical.” Hamilton rubbed his thigh-- _a pulled muscle._

Colden spun around to face the defense team again. To Hamilton’s horror, he walked over slowly, footsteps echoing, locking his eyes on him and Burr.

“...And after a long period of criminal intercourse between them, he deluded her from the house of her protector under a pretense of marriage-- and carried her away to a well in the suburbs of this city-- _and murdered her.”_

Hamilton looked at Colden, who had paused, leaning against the wooden railing in front of them. He closed his eyes and brought a hand to his mouth dramatically as if stifling a cry, then opened one eye to steal another glance at the pair. 

Burr glared at him, turning pale. 

Colden let out a loud sigh, and lifted his face to the ceiling as if in silent prayer. Then, “No _wonder_ , gentlemen, that my mind shudders at the picture here drawn, and requires a moment to recollect myself.”

Colden held out a finger and covered his face again. Several members of the jury nodded appreciatively; one man dabbed at his eye. Livingston’s mouth hung open, both confused and irritated at the spectacle.

“Your Honor, _look_ at this act--” Hamilton stood, protesting. 

“Mr Hamilton, _sit down,_ ” Lansing shot back. “You will have your turn to speak in a moment.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Colden blinked innocently at him, “I was overcome with sadness at it all. You must forgive me.”

Hamilton threw himself back down onto the bench; Burr inched his hand over and rested it next to his.

Colden went on, detailing the sad tale of the naive Elma Sands-- her life at the boarding house, her excitement at the prospect of marriage to a man who she genuinely loved-- at least, that was what Hamilton had deduced from it all. _A life was stolen here, Alexander_ , he heard the voice in his head scold him. 

He shrunk in his seat, grabbing Burr’s hand tighter, squeezing it, then letting it go. He watched Colden’s theatrics and the jury’s eager response, and despaired further. He stole a glance at his co-council: Livingston taking rapid notes; Burr watching Colden as if trying to read his thoughts before he could speak them. 

Hamilton’s mind wandered to the night before, and he closed his eyes, briefly escaping the stuffy courtroom and transporting himself back to expensive sheets and wine-drunk screams. 

“You will see, gentlemen of the jury, that we have _only_ circumstantial evidence to offer you in this case, and you must also perceive that from its nature it admits no other,” Colden raised his voice again; Hamilton’s eyes sprung open. “I shall, however, reserve my remarks upon this subject for a future stage in the cause, and shall, without delaying longer--”

“--Thank Christ--” Burr cut in, under his breath. Hamilton stifled a smile. 

“--Proceed to call the witnesses.” Colden concluded, spinning on his heel again and ceding the floor to the defense. 

Livingston stood and approached Lansing with a slip of paper, handing it to him, and walking back to the bench. He nodded at Burr, who stood. Hamilton’s eyes followed him.

“The counsel for the prisoner moves the court for permission to take the testimony of Elizabeth Watkins,” 

Burr looked around, “Who is now, it appears, is in an adjoining house.”

“I have the affidavit here, Mr Burr,” Lansing waved it. “It says that she is unwell and that she cannot come as it would endanger her health, and she would prefer a written deposition. Did Mr. Livingston share this information with you?”

“Yes, ” Burr lied. He shot a look at Livingston, who stared ahead defiantly. 

“Mr. Colden, do you have any objections?” Lansing looked at the other attorney. Colden stood and shook his head. 

“If she is ill she certainly cannot be compelled to endanger her life. I think one lost soul is enough for now.”

Hamilton watched several members of the jury nod appreciatively. He made a face, “Oh, come _on--”_

“An objection, Mr. Hamilton?” Lansing called out from his bench. Hamilton turned back in his seat, facing forward. “If not, I would ask that you take this to the deposed, if you would be so kind. She is in the house just next door, resting. Do be gentle.”

All eyes turned to him, and Hamilton shook his head, “Yes. Yes of course--” He walked up to the bench and took the note, folding it and walking back. He caught Burr’s eye on the way out; an inscrutable, mysterious flicker. 

Hamilton made his way back down the stairs outside of the courthouse, the streets blessedly empty. He paused at the bottom step, closing his eyes and steadying himself. The tension was almost too much to bear. Colden’s theatrics and poor choice of words. Burr’s warm leg next to his. He opened his eyes and cleared his throat, heading towards the Watkins’ house.

\-----

The testimony dragged for hours; Burr shifted uncomfortably against the hard bench. He and his co-counsel questioned them one by one, eyed the clock as it neared noon, gazed briefly out the window to watch the light from the sun change position in the sky. He stole a glance at Hamilton, standing and addressing one of the witnesses, using his sharp language like a blade. He smiled. 

He followed Hamilton with his eyes as he sat back down again.

“Poor Mrs. Ring looks like she’s going to cry, General. Not everyone can withstand your venom,” Burr said under his breath, loosening his neck tie. 

The older woman spoke at the witness stand, “Last July was when Levi Weeks came to stay with our family, as a boarder. He began to pay...attentions...to Margaret Clark, until she left to go to the country in August. About two days after she left, Elma asked me to--”

Hamilton bounced back up, lifting a finger, “--If you’ll excuse the interruption, Mrs. Ring. I would ask the opinion of the court whether declarations from the deceased are actually admissible as evidence.”

Burr stood next, “General Hamilton is correct. This is hearsay testimony. Scratch it from the record, if you will.”

“No,” Colden shot back, “No, sirs. If you’ll permit me-- this testimony is needed to show the disposition of mind of the deceased when she left the house on the night of her death. We need to be able to deduce her state of mind, if she had her faculties about her or if she was overcome with some…” Colden searched for a word, raising a hand, “...Some melancholy.”

“And you will deduce that from one person’s retelling of a story, will you?” Hamilton replied. 

Colden ignored him, pulling out some documents, “Your Honor, I have here some New York state trials of similar crimes, numbers 487, 488...Leeche’s Cases, number 399...Bacon, number 563, Skinner’s Reports, number 402, here--” with each number, Colden lifted another paper. 

Livingston stirred in his seat, finally standing. “The state does not have authority in this matter. The Skinner case isn’t even law-related.”

“The only exception to receiving hearsay evidence is when it is given in extremis,” Burr interjected. He lifted a hand towards Colden, “We are all very impressed with your papers, sir but they are inadmissible. One of your examples was in a _Scottish_ court and should by no means be used as an authority here.”

Hamilton bit the inside of his cheek; stared at the floor. He looked up as the judge agreed and refused the evidence. 

Mrs. Ring continued her story and the pair sat back on the bench. Burr put a hand up on the banister in front of them, tapping his fingers to an imaginary song. Hamilton stared at them, wishing he could hear the melody.

The older woman spoke about her life keeping a boarding house, her tenants, the desperation in her voice as she described her immediate mistrust of Weeks. She blushed, describing how he regularly stayed nights with Elma, looking down into her lap demurely. Several titters from the jury, and a scathing glance from Judge Lansing, and Mrs. Ring went on with her tale for several more minutes. 

After a minute, a scuffle was heard in the back of the room.

Livingston interrupted her, “I am sorry, Mrs. Ring, your honor, but--” he turned in his seat, “I would like to inform the court that even though _he was ordered out,_ Mr. Ring has returned and is attempting to-- Mr Ring, I can _see_ you, sir-- Constable, please--”

Hamilton and Burr both turned to watch the constable remove Mrs. Ring’s husband, who was attempting to get her attention. They exchanged amused looks, and a low mutter rippled through the court. 

Burr leaned in, using the sudden noise to mask his words, “How are you holding up, General? You keep disappearing on me.”

Hamilton moved closer to him, “I am fine. I am _tired_. Ready to be done with the whole blasted thing, frankly.”

Lansing slammed his mallet and called the room to order. Mrs. Ring went on with her testimony and there were no further interruptions as she concluded it. 

Hamilton’s eyes glazed, and he hated the way his mind wandered. It was unfair and unprofessional. He drifted again, and felt Burr scoot his foot next to his, tapping it three times. He looked down at the shining boot, marveling at how the leather gleamed. Hamilton’s mind raced. Another tap of Burr’s foot. 

“Stay with me, General.”

Hamilton inhaled, swallowing, reaching for his notes, “I have the questions prepared.”

He stood and walked up to the witness, studying her, beginning the litany. He almost felt bad for the woman, her defenses completely shattered-- her nerves shot and shivering. Hamilton slowed the pace of his questions. He asked her about the noises she heard the night of the incident.

“Mrs. Ring, how far is it from your room to the front door?” Hamilton shifted his weight from his left to his right foot.

The older woman answered, “About ten feet.”

“What kind of staircase do you have in your boarding house?”

“Hollow.”

Hamilton gave her what he hoped was a concerned smile, “Would not a person coming down such a staircase make considerable noise?”

Mrs. Ring shifted, “Any person certainly would, yes.”

From the bench, Burr watched his co-counsel with rapt interest, following Hamilton’s train of thought before he even verbalized it. An involuntary grin crept across his face. He felt Livingston hit him on the arm, “Wipe that stupid look off your face, Burr, this is serious.” He hissed. 

Hamilton continued, “Did Levi return to his lodgings that evening?”

Mrs. Ring looked around, worry on her features, “Yes, at about ten o’clock. The moment he opened the door I noticed his countenance was pale and agitated. He asked, ‘has Elma gone to bed?’ I answered, no, she has gone out. He said, ‘I am surprised she should go out so late at night and alone’. To which I replied, I’ve no reason to think she went alone. And he did not reply to that, but looked earnest and thoughtful and leaned down his head, like this--”

Hamilton raised his eyebrows and watched the witness put her hands over her eyes, and lean on her elbows against the banister. 

Colden interjected again, “Had anything passed to lead him to believe that she went out alone?”

“No, nothing.”

“Did you express any alarm to him?” Hamilton asked. 

Mrs. Ring continued her explanations, growing more and more confident as she went on. Hamilton synthesized the information as quickly as she could produce it: no one said anything at breakfast when Elma wasn’t there, no one asked any questions about her supposedly leaving to go out at night by herself; the casualness with which her supposed fiancé treated her disappearance. He began to piece together a story that went beyond murder-- it was negligence. 

“On the twenty-sixth of December,” Mrs. Ring’s voice cut into Hamilton’s mind again, “Margaret Clark and her sister were with me in the drawing room and Levi came in, distressed. He sat down to comfort us, saying, ‘Give her up. She is gone, no doubt, and all our grieving would do no good.’”

At this Mrs. Ring swallowed, steadying her breath. Hamilton put a hand on the banister, “Please, continue, Madame.”

“I turned and looked at Levi, saying, ‘Levi-- give me your firm opinion. Tell me truthfully what you think happened to her.’ He replied…” Mrs. Ring paused again, “...He replied, ‘Mrs. Ring, it is my firm belief she is now in eternity. Make yourself easy, for no amount of grieving will bring her back.’ I answered, ‘why do you speak like that? What reasons do you have to say such a thing?’ He responded, ‘I heard her say she wished she never had an existence’--” 

The older woman stopped, overcome, Hamilton noticed, with _real_ emotion. He shot a look at Colden. 

He then spoke softly, “Mrs. Ring, have you ever made comments like that, about non-existence?”

“Yes-- I daresay I have-- in this very case, I might say I wish I never had an existence. I _know_ it’s wrong. But I asked Levi what other reasons he might have for saying Elma took her own life. To which he replied, ‘I heard her threaten that if she had laudanum, she would swallow it.’”

Burr watched the scene unfolding, discomforted. _Hasn’t everyone wished for non-existence, at one point?_ He couldn’t answer the words in his own head; thought only of himself. As if on cue, Hamilton turned to look at him, heading back to their bench, hinting at a dark shared memory between them, and Burr shrank in his seat. 

_No, that will not be dissected now._

Livingston continued to scribble his notes, and Hamilton whispered, “Will you cross-examine, or shall I? I don’t like that look on your face, Colonel.”

“I will explain myself later,” Burr replied. “I will cross-examine.”

Colden’s voice cut through their conversation again, “...Mrs. Ring, what was Miss Sands’ disposition the night of her disappearance, December 22nd? Was it composed?”

 _It does not matter if she was singing from the rooftops,_ Burr thought.

“More so than usual, Mr. Colden. She was pleasant,” Mrs. Ring answered. 

“And what was her general temper of mind?” Colden asked. 

“Very open, lively and free.”

Burr bit his tongue; _do not open, lively and free people often swing from extremes?_ Hamilton nudged him. 

“Pray Mrs. Ring, has she not always had a cheerful character, that of a modest, discreet girl? Let me ask you, would not the conduct between the prisoner and herself be deemed improper, if it was not supposed they were soon to be wed?” Colden asked her in quick succession. 

“Yes.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Was she one of the Quaker Friends, like yourself?” Colden inquired. “Tell me more about her personally. Her family.”

Mrs. Ring shook her head, “She was not a Friend, though we wanted her to be. She was a blood relation to me, a cousin. My father’s sister’s daughter. Her mother is alive but unmarried and Elma took her mother’s last name of Sands.”

Colden looked down at his notes, “And when was the body found?”

“January 2nd,” Mrs. Ring answered quietly. 

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Colden looked up at the judge, and made his way back to his seat. 

“How much longer are we going to torture this woman,” Hamilton muttered to himself, picking a piece of lint from his pants. Burr watched the spec float in the beam of sunlight that had now positioned itself between them, glinting off the embroidery of Hamilton’s dark green vest. He felt a hand on his, “You’re up, Colonel.”

Burr stood and made his way to the witness. He offered her a small smile, and began to inquire into Weeks’ character, Elma’s relationship with the family. He was gentle, Hamilton thought, but firm. _How like him._

“Mrs. Ring,” Burr lowered his voice, almost demure, “Did you ever have reason to suspect that any other person but Levi had improper intimacy with Elma?”

Mrs. Ring turned pink, “No-- never.”

Burr stepped back and nodded. Hamilton crossed and uncrossed his legs on the hard bench. 

“Did you say that Mr. Weeks was a person of kind disposition? Attentive to your children and family, even when they were sick?”

“I thought he was kind,” Mrs. Ring reasoned, “But as to your other point, I could not say. None of my children were ever sick while he was in the house.”

Colden stood, “Do you know what materials the wall between your house and the neighbors’ is composed of?”

Burr made a face and turned on him, “What?”

“I do not,” Mrs. Ring answered. 

“Very good,” Colden made a note. Burr stared at him for a moment; Lansing shook him from his thoughts. 

“If you have no further questions, Mr. Burr--”

“--No, your honor. Please call the next witness.” Burr exhaled, giving Mrs. Ring a slight bow, and turning on his heel to go back to the bench. Hamilton eyed him.

“That’s it? You’re just going to let Colden interrupt you to ask about _building_ materials?” He asked leaning in. The pair watched the next witness, Hope Sands, approach the bench and take her seat, the sound of the oath being read and her responses fading into the background. 

Hamilton turned his attention back to Burr, “Do you have any idea what Colden is intimating?”

Burr bit his lip, searching, “That it was a house of perversions where they all listen to each other at night? I don’t _know_ , General, but it might be important.”

Livingston shoved a paper at them, interrupting, indicating that they go over his notes. 

At the bench, Hope told her story, and Hamilton folded the notes from Livingston and held them in his lap, listening to her. 

“The first time I knew Levi and Elma to be together intimately was about two weeks after she came to town…”

 _“Two weeks,”_ Hamilton breathed. 

“It takes some of us twenty-five years,” Burr whispered back. 

“...I then found Levi and Elma together in the bedroom,” Hope blushed and looked down. Burr stole a glance at Colden, who wore an expression somewhere between lurid interest and pity. He suddenly felt dirty. The entire courtroom fell silent. 

Hope continued, “...I was there with Elma when Levi came in, and Elma gave me a hint...and I immediately left and he followed me to the door and shut and locked it…”

“This poor thing,” Burr muttered, mostly to himself. He felt Hamilton inhale deeply; crossing his legs and straightening his pants. He reached down and scratched at a spot on his calf, twirling his ankle. Burr prodded him, “Would you _please_ stop fidgeting?” 

“...I went down the stairs to leave my shoes there, and then silently walked back upstairs and listened at the door to see if I could hear their conversation, but could not understand anything, although I did hear whispering. I stayed at the door for more than an hour…”

Hamilton made a small noise, “Did she say an _hour?”_

Burr stole another glance at the man next him whose cheeks were redder than Hope’s. It was a _bizarre_ sensation that ran through him and he struggled to define it while still listening to the testimony. 

The young woman detailed her own experience with Levi as a boarder, and her own perspective of him. 

_How long were Levi and Elma locked in that room together? Was Levi more particular to Elma than to you? Was Levi much liked? Did you see them in their room? How late was the night? Was Elma naked?_

Colden’s dark questions heaped themselves on Hope, and her eyes began to glisten, the mixture of humiliation and sadness evident on her face. Burr moved uncomfortably in his seat and focused on the pretty shine of Hamilton’s boot buckle. The sun inched further across the late afternoon sky and the glint was suddenly gone. 

In the next second, Hamilton stood, walking towards the bench. He tried for sympathy; a soft countenance. His heart ached at the sight of the young woman, scared and sad. 

“Hope. I know this is painful, but I need you to tell me what you remember about that day.”

Hope shook her head, yes, “On the 22nd of December, I had been to a Meeting with the Friends that afternoon. I came home to see Elma dressing. About eight o'clock, she went out. She was...wearing gloves. I remember that.”

“What kind of gloves, Hope?”

“Long and white.”

“Can you be certain of that?” Hamilton asked. 

At this, Hope closed her eyes and a tear fell down her cheek, “Yes. They were her favorite.”

Burr heard a sniff to his left and saw Livingston dab at his nose. He looked back at Burr, somewhat embarrassed, shrugging. Burr turned back and watched Hamilton’s cross-examination. 

Hope composed herself as best she could.

“...About ten o’clock, Levi came in. He asked, has Elma gone to bed? I said no, she’s gone out. He said that was strange, that she would go out late and alone.” Hope looked at her hands in her lap, picking at a loose fingernail. 

Hamilton indicated that he had no further questions, and the young woman was led from the bench and out of the courtroom. He watched her for a moment, then sat down. 

“What a mess,” Livingston muttered, looking at his co-counsel, then rifling through his notes while the next witness was called. “The entire family is grieving. None of them believe Levi actually did it but I cannot tell if that is due to their affection for him or they are rationally _certain_ of his innocence.”

Hamilton glanced at the notes, expression darkening, “All we know is that they spent the night together and one of them wound up _dead_.”

“Colden seems to be implying that Elma was a loose woman and seduced Levi and that he murdered her in a blind rage,” Livingston shook his head, “I do not know which line of thought to dissect first.”

“Colden is fanatical,” Burr muttered definitively. “They were clearly in love. This was no thoughtless murder.”

“A thought _ful_ murder, Colonel?” Hamilton turned to him. 

Burr stared ahead at the new witness being brought up: a middle-aged man with a strong jaw and black hair-- Mr. Ring, who had been led out of the courtroom for disturbing his wife. 

Livingston spoke after a beat, “Mr. Ring is up-- shall I perform the cross-examination? I cannot sit here any longer. My leg aches.”

Hamilton lifted a hand, giving him the floor. Livingston made his way to the bench, handing his papers to the other two men. 

“Mr. Ring,” Livingston began, “What was the character of the prisoner previous to this, and how was he liked in his family?”

The older man lifted his chin haughtily, “His character was always good, and his behavior.”

“Would you consider yourself a friend and protector of Elma?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever speak to her about her improper intimacy with Levi?” Livingston levelled the witness with a stare, “Did you hear any noises, or whispering?”

“No, and _no_ ,” Mr. Ring looked at him pointedly. 

Hamilton looked down at Livingston’s notes, the words blurring together indiscriminately, mingling with his questioning and the testimony. _Had Mr Ring seen something, and not said anything? If he were Elma’s protector and friend, why did he not protect her from the grasp of Levi-- allowing her to be defiled in his own home._ Hamilton swallowed. The questions sat uneasily in the pit of his stomach. He heard Burr sigh. 

“Margaret Clark, General,” he whispered. “The next witness. A friend of the deceased.”

Colden stood up and faced her, hands behind his back, “Did you, Margaret, observe a very particular kind of attention in Levi towards Elma, while you lived at the Ring’s boarding house?”

“I cannot say I did, Mr. Colden,” Margaret said. She was soft-spoken, but did not shrink under the attorney general's questions. “I can’t say that I saw anything that looked like actual _courtship_. After I returned from the country, they appeared more intimate together. I supposed that arose from them having... _been_ together... privately.”

“Did you ever know of them being locked up together in a bedroom?” 

Margaret’s eyebrow twitched, “I knew of _one_ instance, of them being locked together in the bedroom. Levi told me about it. This was the Monday before she went missing.”

Livingston stood, and called out, “Did Levi not pay as much attention to Hope Sands, as he did Elma?”

Margaret locked her eyes on him, frowning slightly, “Yes...I think he did.”

The questioning went on, and Margaret finished, composed and silent, making her way back from the bench, through the hall and into the back room, away from the curious eyes of the jury. Burr looked from them to her. _Circumstantial--_ Colden’s word presented itself in his mind. 

“This is all circumstantial,” Hamilton hissed, scratching his chin. His eyes followed Margaret, “There is not a single shred of hard credible evidence that Weeks so much as _pushed_ her. Someone is covering something up.”

The next witness was called, and the pair watched him slowly march toward the bench as though he were preparing for his own execution. Richard Croucher was sullen and grey-faced. He looked, Hamilton thought, like he’d tried to clean himself up for the occasion, but something in his person would not cooperate. 

“Something not right about that one,” Burr muttered, inclining his head. 

“Yes,” Hamilton replied, making a small note. He quieted while Croucher made his speech. 

“I was a lodger, but not a boarder in Mr Ring’s house. I paid particular attention to the behavior of the prisoner and the deceased--”

“--I _bet_ you did, Croucher,” Burr murmured; Hamilton smirked and shook his head.

“--I was satisfied that between them there was a warm courtship. I knew that the prisoner was with the deceased frequently, in private, at _all_ times of the night, I knew him to pass _two whole nights_ in Elma’s bedroom,” Croucher’s expression turned as he realized he had the rapt attention of the jury, and a perverse confidence overtook him.

“Once, lying in my bed-- which was in the middle of the room and was in a perfect position to see who passed through the hallway--which was by my own design, mind you--”

Hamilton felt his skin heat up, “-- _Unbelievable_ \--”

“--I will admit I had some curiosity. I saw Levi come out of her room and pass my door _in his nightshirt only--”_

A few titters from some members of the jury; Burr shot them a murderous look. 

Croucher’s mouth turned up, a tiny grin, “--Once, too, they were less cautious than usual and I came upon them in a _very intimate s_ ituation.”

Hamilton stood up in a flash, “Did you _tell_ anyone of this, sir?”

Croucher regarded him, almost offended, “Of course not.”

Burr tugged at the corner of Hamilton’s vest, indicating he sit back down. Hamilton obliged, clenching his jaw, “Are you listening to this? The man is a lecher.”

Croucher’s testimony went on, and the courtroom came to learn about his trip to a neighbor’s house for the birthday of her son; his alibi. He was here and there, he mentioned, his confidence quickly turning into bravado. Greenwich Street, Broadway, a coffeehouse. Burr imagined the man bounding quickly from place to place in the space of one evening and it made him a laughably suspicious character. He nudged Hamilton, who gave him a knowing glance. 

Hamilton rose, “What time did you return that night, Mr. Croucher?”

“Half-past eleven.”

“Do you know where the Manhattan well is?” 

“I do.”

“Did you pass by it that evening?” Hamilton shifted his weight from foot to foot. 

Croucher looked him up and down, “No, but I wish I had. I might have, perhaps, saved the life of poor dear Elma!”

Hamilton turned and looked one last time at Burr; the flash of something behind his eyes. He faced Croucher again. 

“Have you ever had a quarrel with the prisoner? Any words with him?”

Croucher looked confused; the confidence flickering like a dying candle. He spoke like someone wading into a pond without knowing the depth of the water.

“Yes. I suppose you could say I did...just once.” He thought for a moment, then, “The reason was this: One day I was going hastily up the stairs, and I suddenly came upon Elma, who stood at her door. She cried out, _‘Ah!’,_ and fainted. On hearing this, Levi came out of his room and accused me of insulting her, degrading her. And.... I told him he was an impertinent puppy!”

The jury murmured among themselves. Burr closed his eyes, letting a tiny smile spread across his face. He opened them to see Hamilton’s expression the same. They shared another brief look of understanding.

Hamilton turned to face the witness again, “Sir, if I may-- you bear the prisoner no ill-will?”

 _Playing with him,_ Burr thought.

Croucher straightened in his seat, “I bear him no malice, but I despise every man who does not behave in character!” 

Colden raised a hand and stood to speak. For the first time in hours, Burr noticed, his fatigue began to show: his once neatly-pressed waistcoat was rumpled, his necktie askew. _We have rattled you._

“Mr. Croucher, have you ever heard any noises coming from the room of the prisoner at an uncommon time of night since this affair happened?” 

Croucher looked at the attorney general, answering, “Yes, sir, I have. The night the deceased was missing, and the next night, and every succeeding night while Levi stayed at the house. I heard him up at all hours.”

Burr cleared his throat, cutting in, “What kind of noises, Mr. Croucher?”

“Chairs moving about, things dropping-- those kinds of noises.”

Hamilton voiced the next question; Croucher’s gaze turning back and forth between them as though he were following a ball being tossed, “Were you ever upon any other terms with Elma, than just _friendly?”_

Croucher grew irritated, “After I offended Levi, who Elma thought was an Adonis, I _never_ spoke to her again.”

“No further questions, your honor.” Hamilton smiled broadly, and Burr’s chest leapt.

\-----

Hours passed. The witnesses went up, one by one, Henry, John, William, Susanna-- and each one started out confident. Livingston’s quill flew across his parchment while Burr and Hamilton took turns questioning them-- each delighting in watching the thin wall of bravado be stripped. The narrative was sculpted between them instinctively. A rhythm settled in. Burr smiled at his high-colored co-counsel. 

The day dragged on and the room grew hot and cramped. Burr studied the position of the sunset, guessing it was after eight. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and slipped it off, loosening his shirt. Next to him, Hamilton did the same, a thin band of sweat around his neck. 

“Not as bad as Colden,” Hamilton said, hushed. “Look at him. Poor man looks like he’s seen his own death.”

Burr studied his co-counsel’s mouth, “He has.”

“It’s too _easy_ , Colonel,” Hamilton turned to look at him, almost disappointed.

A woman named Catherine took the stand next, and the three defense attorneys watched be questioned by Colden. His voice cracked, and he held up a finger while taking a sip of water. 

“Dear Catherine,” he began, “Did you see the face of Elma? In the well?”

“I did not, but I knew her form and shape,” Catherine replied sadly. 

“Did you see anyone else around? Anyone suspicious, in a sleigh or carriage?”

“No, I did not, sir.”

“Where were you when you heard the cry you supposed to be Elma’s?” Colden asked. 

“In front of the Lispenards.”

Colden took a deep breath, as if trying to coax something out of her. She sat silently, confused. After a beat, she was finished and excused. 

At last, the final bit of purple sunset passed through the window and disappeared, and the candles were lit around them. 

The testimonies kept coming and the night dragged on exhaustingly. More witnesses-- another Margaret, another William -- at this, Colden called them both by the wrong surnames, and the three defense attorneys had to stifle their laughter. 

Livingston underlined something on his notes and showed his co-counsel, who grinned. The second William, who sat at the witness stand as though it pained him, shrunk in his seat, embarrassed. 

He waited for Lansing to regain order, and in a quiet, nervous voice, told his story. 

“On the Monday morning before Christmas, my wife and I were going into town in a wood sleigh, and I discovered the track of a one-horse sleigh about three hundred feed from the Manhattan Well, up the new road which Colonel Burr had built--”

Burr looked up from his hands at the sound of his name. Hamilton made a small noise. William went on.

“--I found the sleigh had been driven so near the wall next to the road, that I thought it was a wonder it had not accidentally turned over. I also observed that there was one board missing from the well itself, which left it open-- perhaps twelve or thirteen inches--”

“--Is not the road a very _bad_ one?” Hamilton let a tiny smile play on his lips. He leaned forward on the banister casually, without standing, interrupting the witness.

Burr pinched him again and he bit the inside of his cheek. 

Williams looked from Burr to Hamilton, somewhat embarrassed. He faltered, “I...well...yes. I suppose it is a bad road.”

Hamilton went on, fanning his shirt to cool down, “Is it not _so_ bad that nobody could drive there at night, even slowly, without great danger?”

“The road is bad, but I think I would have used it, if necessary…” William turned pink, eyes still darting between the two men. Burr crossed his arms and sat back, trying desperately to keep a straight face. 

Anne, Anderson, Joseph, Arnetta, Lawrence-- all came and went. Burr suddenly became aware of his own sweat, the sound of the clock, the jury waving fans to cool themselves. They all tried, and failed, to stand up to the onslaught of questions between Hamilton and himself, whose loose linen shirt sat low against his collarbone. Burr’s mind wandered. He wanted to be anywhere else. 

“Mr. Burr, will you please step up to cross-examine Mr. Orr, if you don’t mind?” Judge Lansing called from his bench. Burr started, blinking. Hamilton looked at him and straightened his collar. 

“Of course. Yes.” Burr walked up to the new witness: a tall, sturdy man with broad shoulders and red hair. 

“Mr Orr….you said you went from your house to a house near a Mr. Benson’s, and stayed there about an hour. When you left you came outside and heard the cry of a woman, near the well. You inspected it further, and heard a second cry, but it was smothered. What time was this?”

Orr thought for a moment. “Around nine in the evening.”

“How did you know the time?” Burr raised his eyebrows playfully, lifting a hand, “Celestial bodies?”

“No, sir, I checked the time before I left Mr Benson’s,” Orr responded, not appreciating the attempt at humor. 

The room was filled with tired faces, not the least of which, noticed Hamilton, was Colden’s. He stared at the assistant attorney general, a modicum of pity forming in his heart for the poor man. It was unfair. He fanned his shirt again, pulling a handkerchief and dabbing at his neck. He winced, hitting a bruise, and blushed. Hamilton fixed his shirt collar again. 

_They compare you, you know._

It was coming upon one-thirty, and Hamilton wondered where he’d be staying for the evening. His gaze drifted again; his heart raced.

Burr seized on a lull in the proceedings. He stood, and Hamilton was shaken from his thoughts.

“If I may, sirs. I am noticing-- and I do hope the venerable Mr. Colden will not take offense to this, for I do have his best interests in mind--that some members of the court are perhaps desirous of concluding for the evening. I do not think we will be able to hear much more testimony,” Burr looked around, eyes landing on the jury. 

Several of them nodded in agreement, Still others protested. One, an elderly man, stood, and in a shaking voice, informed the court that it would not be possible to keep themselves sufficiently awake and alert for much longer. Burr regarded the old man kindly, and looked from him to the constable, raising his eyebrows. 

“You see, sirs? You would not torture this good man.”

“I move to adjourn until ten o’clock tomorrow morning, if it would please your honor,” Colden rested his chin in his right hand; pale. 

Livingston muttered, “Thank God. I cannot take much more of this.”

Lansing gathered the attention of the court, “Very well. I agree that this questioning has gone on long enough-- sirs, Constable-- if you would be so kind as to find lodging and refreshments for the gentlemen of the jury so that they may be kept together for the evening. Do be careful leading them from this place. There still appears to be a bit of a crowd outside. They are not to be split up, nor are they to discuss the trial with anyone…”

The judge’s voice faded as the defense team packed their papers. Lansing slammed his mallet, and stepped down, disappearing into an antechamber.

“He seems grumpy,” Hamilton said, draping his coat over his arm. 

“We have been here for fifteen blasted hours,” Livingston sighed. “I do not think half of the people questioned today are even in the least bit pertinent to the case. But of course Colden and the prosecution bit off more than they could chew. Wanted to show off to both of you, I suspect.” He pulled his bag up on his shoulder, and looked at Burr and Hamilton, in turn. 

“Well I would say I am impressed, wouldn’t you, Colonel?” Hamilton fixed his cravat and looked at Burr intently. “I have never seen one single man sweat quite so much.”

Burr chuckled. “No have I, General. Do you think we’ve scared him off?”

“Christ I hope so, because it’s our turn tomorrow,” Livingston responded. “Hopefully our witnesses will have the stamina. Where are you two staying for the night? Burr I suppose you have your lodgings near here. Hamilton?”

Hamilton opened his mouth, lie formulating in both his brain and lower abdomen, “I will go to the inn, I think. Colonel--”

Burr swallowed, “Yes?”

“Would you escort me, please?”

Livingston’s gaze bounced back and forth between them, “Hamilton, I am heading there myself. I could walk you. It would be no trouble.”

“Oh-- well--” Hamilton faltered, gesticulating, “--It’s--”

“His overcoat is still at my apartments,” Burr concluded. 

Livingston closed his eyes and nodded, understandingly. Then, he tapped his leather case with their court documents, and smiled, “In that case, I shall see the two of you tomorrow. Do try to get some rest.”

He lifted a hand, and then turned on his heel, weaving through the remaining people milling about the courtroom, and out the front doors. 

Burr grabbed a handful of fabric at the base of Hamilton’s back and his adrenaline kicked in so fast he thought he was going to pass out. The combination of the long, triumphant day, the warm, stuffy room and the way the candlelight reflected hellishly in Burr’s eyes made him delirious. 

“You’re not staying at the Inn, are you,” Burr murmured; it wasn’t a question. 

\-----

They were on each other as soon as Burr locked his front door. 

He turned to face the other man, his back hitting the hardwood painfully, Hamilton swearing curses directly into his mouth. He grabbed Hamilton by the shoulders and pushed him into an adjoining room, onto the floor. They hit the thick carpet with a dull thud, breaking their falls in a flurry of discarded clothes. 

It was wordless and fierce; Burr pinned Hamilton beneath him and fucked him into the floor, first with his fingers. Their hands scrabbled against each other and the rug; Burr pressed his mouth against Hamilton’s to stifle his screams. He wet his palm with his spit, slicked himself and pushed deep; the rug rippled and bunched. Burr turned them both on their sides and wrapped an arm around Hamilton’s neck, pulling him impossibly close. 

Burr hissed his praise into Hamilton’s ear, feverish and hard, “... _You’re incredible--”_

Hamilton tilted his head back in silent response, digging the nails on his left hand into Burr’s arm and tearing skin. _It was too easy._ His mouth went dry and Burr hit a spot so intense Hamilton thought he might cry. 

His mind went blank again and he forgot his words. He felt Burr grab his thigh-- _oh, he’s in charge and_ _you love it--_ the pulled muscle that aggrieved him throughout the fifteen hour trial spasmed, and Hamilton relished in the pain. He grabbed his cock and pulled, matching the pace of Burr’s thrusts, coming desperately in less than ten minutes-- _fuck me, fuck me, fuck me--_

 _“Fuck me--”_ Hamilton spat, pushing back into Burr and squeezing his arm so hard he was sure the was breaking bone-- Burr filling him up and fucking him right ... _there--_ right on the floor-- 

Burr let out a graceless moan, bucking his hips a final time, _“Alexander--”_

He breathed into Hamilton’s neck, eyes closed against his wet skin, sucking and biting his shoulder blade intermittently as he came down. Burr steadied his breath and let the climax course over his skin in waves. Slowly, excruciatingly, reality crept back in--

\--His bunched pants around his ankles, the rug burn on his bare legs, the painful bruising on his forearm-- 

“Oh, _General…_ ” Burr breathed, unwrapping his arm from the other man’s neck, still grinding into him, instinctively. He growled, “...What have you _done?”_

Hamilton exhaled, still writhing against the carpet, “What have _you_ done?” 

“The carpet…”

Hamilton looked down in front of him and burst out laughing.

Burr lifted himself up and looked over the other man’s shoulder, “That will never come up.”

Hamilton fell onto his back, running a hand through his hair, the pretty glow still alight on his cheeks. After a few seconds, he grabbed his breeches and pulled them on haphazardly. Burr watched him, reaching down and pulling his own pants up. He settled next to Hamilton. 

The pair lay quietly, staring at the ceiling, the only sound punctuating the darkened room were their twin breaths and a light spring rain hitting the windows. 

Hamilton rested a hand on his midsection, speaking after a beat, hushed, “We are going to win this case, Colonel.”

Burr exhaled, turning his head and looking at him. Hamilton went on, eyes staring ahead. 

“We are going to eviscerate them,” he whispered, his glow turning fanatical in a span of milliseconds. Burr was enraptured. 

“That’s the spirit,” Burr whispered. 

Hamilton rolled onto his side, and then propped himself up into a sitting position. He pushed himself back against the nearest wall, and rested an arm on one of his knees. He stared at Burr, pupils dilated, “I have _never_ felt more powerful.”

“I think we should point the finger at Croucher,” Burr said, crawling over to him and placing a kiss on his mouth. 

“Yes… his _words_ tonight...I can’t believe--”

Burr pulled him in for another kiss, tilting his chin, “I know.”

“Croucher was plainly in love with Elma,” Hamilton pulled away, licking his lips. “He was in love with her and jealous-- and you heard him admit to the names he called Weeks--”

“Mm,” Burr nodded in assent, “A puppy. If they were better men it would be grounds for a challenge.”

Hamilton raised a finger, “Exactly.” He looked around him, “It’s all there. Where are my notes, and a quill-- if you don’t mind--”

Burr crawled over to their discarded bags, laying in a crumpled pile by the door. He fished around for the quill and parchment and pulled some out, handing it to Hamilton. He took the items and grabbed a book from a nearby shelf to lean on, and propped it up on his knees. 

He began writing, muttering the words under his breath. 

“How are your kidneys, General?”

Hamilton paused, blinking, and looking up, “...What?”

Burr scooted to the wall, adjusting himself against it, “Your kidneys. You were complaining about them earlier.”

Hamilton lifted the quill, “They are fine, for God’s sake. You _pinched_ me, recall. That didn’t exactly help.” He went back to writing. “Now, let us prepare our case.”

He scratched a few more words and the rain picked up. 

Burr watched him, yawning, “I think we should call it a night. I don’t have the energy to go on.”

“Well the argument must be watertight. What are the facts? That Elma and Levi were in love, of this we can be certain, and even moreso, the jury certain-- I believe I can use some swelling romantic language to convince them.” Hamilton didn’t look up from his notes, “Did you _see_ the expressions on their faces when Croucher admitted to insulting the prisoner so? Indefensible language.”

“They need more candles in the courtroom. I could hardly see a thing,” Burr rubbed his eyes, “Croucher is clearly unhinged. The way he talked about spying on them…”

“I know,” Hamilton sighed, crossing through something and adding a note in the margin, “Angry, frustrated, reckless, perverse. A frightening portrait, wouldn’t you agree? Now--” he situated himself into a new position, facing Burr and reaching out to put a hand on his chest, “--You shall be the jury, and I shall be me.”

“What if I want to be you?”

“Colonel-- listen,” Hamilton looked down at his notes, “I think we should begin by apologizing, thanking them for their patience, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Burr yawned again.

“We should then try something like…” Hamilton closed his eyes, quill on his chin, thinking rapidly, “...All of mankind’s vindictive and ferocious passions have assembled here in a terrible array, and exerted every engine to gratify their malice.”

“What a delightfully vivid portrait, General.”

Hamilton went on, “We need to express the fact that, from the beginning, this trial was biased against the prisoner and that he never stood a chance. Once that facade has been cracked we may work on convincing them that it was Croucher, and paint him as the villain. The building will then crumble and the truth will come to light.”

Burr watched him. Hamilton looked up.

“Are you going to write any of this down?”

“I am not.” Burr stretched a leg, stood up, “Would you like something to eat?”

Hamilton followed suit. He walked over to a small dining table in the corner of the room and pulled out a chair, sitting. He spread his papers out, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Burr disappeared and Hamilton paused his notetaking to look out the window. He moved one of the thick, heavy curtains to the side and watched the puddles form in the dips and cracks of the cobblestones, rippling orange lights reflecting in the water from candles in windows. He wondered briefly who else was awake, and what they might be up to.

“I’m afraid all I have is some pie from this morning’s breakfast--” Burr came back into the room and placed it on the small table, with two forks. “Blueberry. Or perhaps blackberry. I don’t know.”

He left again and came back with a pitcher of water and two glasses, sitting down at an opposite chair, and filling them. 

“It’s delicious, whatever it is,” Hamilton said, mouthful. 

Burr took a bite, “General-- we really should consider getting to bed before three.” He stabbed at the pie, picking out a small berry and moving it around with his fork.

Hamilton held up a finger and added a few more notes.

Burr sighed, putting his fork down with a clank, “I see you are indefatigable. Very well. What do you have?”

“I would like to revisit some of Mrs. Ring’s testimony. I have a feeling Elma’s wish for non-existence might also work in our favor, as a failsafe, in the event that the jury does not believe Croucher was the murderer.” Hamilton finished his scrawl, looked at Burr, “What do you make of that?”

“It discomforts me,” Burr answered brusquely, stabbing at a piece of crust and shoving it into his mouth. 

Hamilton waited for further explanation. When none came, he pressed him, “What about it discomforts you? Surely if Elma were suicidal she would have looked for reasons to die. She would have been despondent. Again, I think it would be prudent to flesh out this story a bit and put ourselves in her mind--”

“--I do not want to think on it, General,” Burr raised his voice. “It was clearly a murder, the question is by whom. The witnesses state that she was fine.”

“You don’t fully believe that,” Hamilton replied, matching his tone. “You cannot trust every witness, either. What we need to do is read between the lines and map out a plausible alternate scenario in which a young girl was despondent that her lover had perhaps _deceived_ her in some way-- maybe she was pregnant, the engagement was false, and her emotions got the best of her--”

“--If she wanted to die she would have taken the laudanum and been done with it. There would be no theatrics,” Burr cut him off, pointing a fork. 

Hamilton exhaled and threw himself back in the seat, tossing his quill down. 

The pair were silent. 

“You take laudanum. For your headaches,” Hamilton spoke after a few seconds. He studied Burr.

“I do. What does that have to do with anything?”

“What is it like?”

Burr shrugged silently, looking down at his fork. Then, “One feels as though they could fall asleep and never wake up. A blessedly easy way to end it all.”

Hamilton replied, “Perhaps she was scared. Perhaps she wanted to die but could not bear to do it herself for fear of her soul. I don’t doubt the Rings filled her mind with _some_ Quaker teachings. Is not suicide a mortal sin?”

“It is,” Burr sighed, and looked Hamilton in the eyes, “But I can assure you that once the evil thoughts have implanted themselves in your brain no amount of Bible-waving will dissuade them.”

The heavy weight of a different shared feeling coated the inside of Hamilton’s chest, “Yes. That I _do_ understand, Colonel. But we need to create this vision for the jury to follow it, step-by-step, so that they may see our logic.”

Burr plucked another berry from the plate with his fingers and studied it in the dim light, “Do you think she was so afraid for her soul that she would persuade her lover to do the act for her?” He popped it into his mouth, “That is _profoundly_ selfish, General.”

Hamilton tapped his fingers and looked down at his papers again, “Well we will have to decide what is worse, then. Or, rather, put ourselves in her mind, as best we can. Which is preferable: a painless suicide and an eternity of Hell or a gruesome murder and everlasting angels?”

Burr gazed at him, the sweetness of the pastry filling his mouth, watching Hamilton’s lips hitch up at the sides, the flicker of a thought just beneath the surface. He saw, even in the dark room, the light freckles on his exposed shoulders and the blooming purple bruises on his neck. Burr wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with him and forget the entire ordeal.

“That is to be our back-up then,” Hamilton said in a low voice, “If our argument about Croucher does not work.”

Burr bit down on another berry, juices lingering on his tongue, staring at him, “It will.”

\-----

The defense team sat in the same seats, in the same positions, as they had the day before. Livingston beat his co-counsel to the courthouse by twenty-five minutes. Burr smiled to himself, rubbing a pulled muscle at the nape of his neck; bringing a finger to his lips and trailing one over a tender bite mark. He stole a glance at Hamilton, who blushed, deep in similar thought. 

He then looked over at the assistant attorney general, who seemed even more tired than they were: his clothes were clean and fresh but the dark circles under his eyes and general pallor told Burr he hadn’t slept much, either. 

_What a miserable way to spend the night-- alone and sleepless, instead of with another._

“They will be calling the doctor first, I believe, Colonel,” Hamilton whispered, inching his foot towards Burr’s.

Doctor Skinner approached the bench and took his seat, and Colden took a sip of water and began his questioning, his voice strong and clear.

 _For now,_ Hamilton thought to himself. _But we will beat you._

“Doctor Skinner, are you not a surgeon in this city? And did you not see the body of Elma Sands after it was taken out of the well, to examine it? Pray, sir-- inform the jury.”

“I follow a branch of surgery, but I am not _technically_ a surgeon,” Skinner corrected Colden. He cleared his throat, “I am… a dentist. But I have made the general subject of surgery my study.”

“And we are off to a _brilliant_ start. Thank you, Mr. Colden,” Burr said under his breath; Hamilton’s suppressed chuckle.

“...I had but a very superficial view of the body as it lay in the coffin,” Skinner made a face and shook his head, “--Exposed as it was, to the view of thousands. I was able to examine her head, neck and breast. I discovered several bruises upon the forehead and chin, and upon the left breast.”

Hamilton dropped his voice, “Yes, but how were her _teeth_ , sir?” 

Burr shook with silent laughter and Livingston smacked him with a pamphlet.

Colden asked, “How long after she was taken out of the water was this observation made?”

“I...I do not know, sir.”

“Will you describe those marks more particularly?”

Skinner chewed his lip, looked up, thinking, “The marks upon her neck had the appearance of a sort of compression wound-- but not by a handkerchief or rope. I believe it had been suggested that her neck was broken, but it was not. The spots were a reddish black, like a bruise. The bruise on her breast was about the circumference of a coin, and harder to see.”

“The marks around her neck,” Colden pressed him, “--Were they marks that might have been made by a hand?”

Skinner shifted in his seat, “My impression is the same now as it was then. They were.”

The cross-examination began and Hamilton bounced out of his seat.

“Just a few questions, if you don’t mind, sirs,” He began looking at his notes, “Dr. Skinner. Do you say, sir, you are certain the spots were in a ring around her neck?”

“I cannot say exactly that they were in a ring-- not particularly. I think they were just…” Skinner made shapes with his hands, “--Just regular, I think. But again, I cannot say exactly.”

Hamilton sighed impatiently, “Were they spots or lines, sir?”

“They were small spots, not lines.”

“May such spots not have happened from a _different_ type of wound, other than strangulation?” Hamilton inclined his head.

Skinner shrunk in his seat, “I...I am incapable of judging how they might have happened.”

Colden sprang out of his seat, pink, “Suppose, Doctor, a person had been strangled by the hand. Would it not have left the same kind of appearance upon the body?”

Skinner turned his gaze, “I _think_ it would.”

Hamilton marched back to his seat, smug. He sat down and leaned into Burr, “Skinner has no blasted idea what he’s talking about. He can’t tell a bruise from a bite. What was the purpose of calling him here today?”

The next witness was called: a horse farmer called James. Burr watched him walk confidently towards the stand and waited for the inevitable shrink.

“On the second of January, I had some business to do, with regards to breaking a horse. I dined at Mr. Blanck’s house. While we were dining, Watkins and Ring came to tell us they’d found a body in the well and to get some hooks and poles to fish it out. I dragged her up, carefully, and as soon as Ring could get a good look at the gown, he said it was Elma. She was too heavy to lift with the pole I’d brought, so I called for a rope. We put the rope under her and finally drew her out-- and to us--she looked like she’d been murdered--”

Burr stood, interjecting, “--Sir, you are to tell us what you saw, not what conclusion you made. That is for the jury.” He lifted a hand and indicated to the twelve gentlemen on the side of the courtroom.

James regarded him, gave him a small nod, and continued, “Her gown was torn just above the waist. Her shawl was off and her shoes were gone, and her hair hung over her head. When lifting her up I found her head fell forward loosely, which caused me to suppose her neck was broken.”

Burr stood again, “Did you examine her body? Were there any bruises on the face?”

“I do not recollect. There might have been.”

“Might you not have injured the head with the pole? By accident?” Hamilton stood up, next to his co-counsel.

“Not at all,” James’ confidence still hadn’t waned. “The pole did not touch her head. I was particularly tender with it. I hooked her in the skirt of her gown. Her countenance appeared like a person who had been walking in the wind. It was horrid. Her hair was hanging in her face, her comb still stuck in it, a white ribbon...her gown was torn with great violence, sirs. I will never forget the sight.”

A member of the jury indicated that he had a question. Lansing accorded him the floor.

“Were her fingers bruised? As in, did she struggle, do you suppose?”

James turned his gaze on the member of the jury, “I saw some scratches, going up, as in a struggle.”

Hamilton interrupted again, “How do you know the scratches were made up or down?”

“It only appeared to me, sir.” James answered, unfaltering. “I then went to the police, and took him with me to find Levi. I told him, Levi, I was very sorry for his situation-- I felt affected--I expressed it to him, He turned about, dropped his head, and said, ‘Is it the Manhattan well she was found in?’ I said I knew not what well she was found in. I did not then know about the Manhattan well.”

The room grew silent and Hamilton felt Burr shift uncomfortably next to him. Burr proceeded to step back to their bench, and take a seat next to Livingston.

A member of the jury punctuated the silence.

“Was there any mention made of the Manhattan well, in the presence of Levi, before he asked the question about it? Were you present when he saw the body?”

“Objection, please, your Honor,” Hamilton cut in, “This evidence is immaterial.”

Lansing shot Hamilton a look, then lingered on Burr, and went back to the witness, “Overruled. Continue, sir.”

James took a deep breath, “In proceeding to the well, he asked for his brother as counsel for him. When we came there, we found a number of people had already gathered. I asked Weeks, do you know that young woman? He said, I think I recognize the gown. I said, my friend-- that is not my question. I asked him if there were any marks on her person that he knew about.”

Hamilton blinked, eyebrows dipping, “Was it...not a natural-looking corpse?”

“It seemed so. But...she looked as if she were asleep. I never saw her alive.” James concluded quietly.

He was excused from the bench, his confident disposition unchanged. Hamilton watched him walk out. In the next few seconds he was sitting back down, next to Burr, exhaling.

“Who have we got next?”

Before Burr could answer, the next witness came forward: a tall, dark-haired man with spectacles and a pointed nose, whose confidence matched that of James’. He took the stand and the vows, well-spoken and neat, sitting down and waiting. Dr. Hosack crossed his legs, and looked at the courtroom, surveying it calmly.

“Finally. A real doctor,” Hamilton whispered.

Colden stepped forward, “Did you ever see the body, sir? If so, when? What was its appearance?”

Hosack began, “I do not recollect the exact day, but curiosity led me, in common with many others, to visit the body as it lay open in the coffin. The only appearance which attracted my particular attention was an unusual redness around the neck.”

Hosack paused, and moved his hands to his throat, “The spots were of an irregular shape, _not_ in an exact line, as if they had been produced by a cord. But rather they appeared to me to be from violent pressure upon the neck. I ascribed the unusual redness to the sudden extinction of life, and the exposure to air-- for in many cases of sudden death, by opium, lightening, poison or a blow to the head--the corpse will appear florid in such a way.”

Colden stood up again and asked, “Are you decidedly of the opinion that the spots were caused by violence?”

“I am, sir.”

“Could any person, in your opinion, have committed such an act upon themselves? Or, could such a change in the skin have happened on its own? In water?”

Hosack adjusted his glasses, “I do not think so, sir.”

Hamilton felt Burr move beside him, putting a hand on the banister and raising himself up. Hosack regarded him, and Burr spoke, bringing his own fingers to his throat.

“Would the hand, by grasping the neck violently, produce such effects as you mention?”

Hosack thought for a moment. Then, “I believe it would, yes.”

Instinctively, Hamilton touched the tie around his own neck; the bruises it hid. He felt Livingston’s eyes on him quizzically, and he dropped his hand into his lap.

“The next witness is being called. I will cross-examine her,” Livingston leaned over and spoke, hushed. Hamilton watched Hosack descend from the stand and leave without a second look back.

Burr settled back into his seat and the pair watched the last witness in the line-up for the prosecution: A short, soft-spoken woman named Elizabeth.

“I had a small acquaintance with Elma. On the twenty-second of December, I lent her my muff. She came to borrow it herself--”

“--Pardon the interruption, my dear,” Livingston said kindly, “But you will need to speak up just a bit.”

Elizabeth nodded, “When Elma came to borrow my muff, I observed that she was very prettily dressed. And she seemed very lively and happy.”

“When was the muff brought back to you?” Livingston inquired.

“It was brought home the day she was found, and it appeared as if it had been wet.”

“Did you understand it to be found in the well?”

“I did.”

Colden raised a hand and interjected. “That is incorrect, miss. The muff was found some days before the body.”

Hamilton looked at Livingston, who appeared to be in animated conversation with Colden. He lost focus on the trial and his eyesight blurred. He looked at Burr.

“What time is it, do you think?”

Burr gazed out the window at the blazing afternoon sky. “Nearing two, I would suspect. Now pay attention. The venerable Mr. Colden is about to enrapture us all with his closing arguments”

Colden looked better than he did the night before. It seemed as if the testimony of the second morning, instead of draining him further, imbibed him with a new fervor, and he stepped in front of the courtroom. Hamilton locked eyes with him, and Colden’s expression darkened, a mean glint in his eye.

“Circumstantial evidence is all that can be expected, and indeed is all that is necessary, in a case like this. The prejudice entertained by the defense against receiving circumstantial evidence is carried to a pitch _wholly_ inexcusable.”

“You little rat,” Burr hissed.

“In such a case as this, it _must_ be received. The very nature of the inquiry, for the most part, does not admit of any other-- and, consequently, it is the best evidence that can possibly be given.”

Burr looked at the jury, who studied him appreciatively. Several nodded their heads, and appeared to have their minds already made up. He loosened his cravat absentmindedly, heating.

“But,” Colden’s voice rang out, “taking it in a more general sense, a concurrence of circumstances-- which we must _always_ suppose to be properly authenticated, otherwise they weigh nothing--forms a stronger ground of belief than positive and direct testimony affords, especially when unconfirmed by circumstances.”

“He’s just flinging words around like shit, now,” Burr said through clenched teeth. Hamilton put a hand on his leg, shaking his head.

“The reason for this is obvious: a positive allegation may be founded in mistake. Or, what is too common, in the perjury of the witness. _But circumstances cannot lie.”_ Colden raised his voice, pausing, and spun on his heel to stare at the defense team dramatically.

He waited, locking eyes with Burr and Hamilton again, and then went on, addressing the jury, “A long chain of well connected circumstances requires an ingenuity and skill rarely to be met with; and such a consistency in the persons who come to support those circumstances by their oaths, as the annals of our courts of justice can _seldom_ produce.”

“A brave man, insulting the witnesses when most of them aren’t even here,” Burr growled. He turned in his seat, looking to see which of the witnesses were left. A handful had stayed, yawning-- Croucher among them. He nudged Hamilton, pointing him out. Hamilton’s eyes widened.

“He has some nerve.” Hamilton replied in a low tone.

“That concludes the testimony on behalf of the prosecution. Does the counsel for the prisoner have any remarks prepared?” Judge Lansing called from the bench. He raised his eyebrows.

Hamilton set his papers aside, into Burr’s lap, and stood, approaching the bench, “I do, your honor.”

“His _notes--”_ Livingston muttered, looking at the pile of papers.

“He won’t need them, Henry.”

Burr stacked the papers neatly and set them to the side, eyes locked on Hamilton.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” he began, hands lifted as though presenting something he’d created, Burr thought, “The patience with which you have listened to this lengthy and tedious detail of testimony is honorable to your characters.”

Burr watched as several members of the jury straightened their backs. Hamilton paused for effect, and then spoke on.

“It evinces your solicitude to discharge the awful duties which are imposed upon you, and it affords a happy presage that your minds are not infected by that blind and undiscriminating prejudice which had already marked the prisoner for its victim.”

_Oh, that’s so good, General._

Hamilton put a hand on his heart, “You have relieved me from my greatest anxiety, for I know the unexampled industry that has been exerted to destroy the reputation of the accused, and to _immolate_ him at the shrine of persecution without the solemnity of a candid and impartial trial.” 

Burr’s breath caught in his throat-- _that’s very good._ As if reading his mind, Hamilton turned and looked at him for a few silent seconds.

“I know that hatred, revenge and cruelty, all the vindictive and ferocious passions have assembled in terrible array and exerted every engine to gratify their malice,” the glint in his eye flickered and he looked away from Burr, “The thousand tongues of rumor have been steadily employed in the fabrication and dissemination of falsehoods, and every method has been taken to render their slanders universal.”

_The body-- the body, General._

“We have witnessed the extraordinary means which have been adopted to inflame the public passions. Why had the body been exposed for days in the public streets in a manner most indecent and shocking?”

Burr closed his eyes and smiled to himself.

Hamilton answered his own question, “To attract the curiosity and source the feelings of numberless spectators. Such dreadful scenes speak powerfully to the passions: they petrify the mind with horror--” Hamilton grabbed his forearm, “--Congeal the very blood within our veins--and excite the human bosom with _irresistible_ , but undefinable emotions.”

Burr watched his co-counsel speak for several more minutes and the sliver of sunlight inched across the sky, lighting the hair around his head like a halo. He stole a glance at the jury who sat, like he was, enthralled at the poetical genius of his words. Burr’s mind travelled, Hamilton’s speech dipping in and out of his consciousness. 

“...Notwithstanding there may be testimony of an intimacy having subsisted between the prisoner and the deceased, we shall show you that there was nothing like a _real_ courtship, or such a course of conduct as ought to induce impartial people to entertain a belief that marriage was intended…”

Hamilton walked back from the jury to the banister where Burr and Livingston sat, and looked at Burr for several seconds more while the courtroom waited. 

He spoke:

“There will be two modes of giving a solution here. First, that the deceased sometimes appeared melancholy, that she was a dependent upon this family, and that a gloomy sense of her situation might have led her to destroy herself.”

Hamilton finally looked away from Burr, who exhaled.

Hamilton continued, “As to the incident of Levi and the sleigh, we shall account for his whole time during that evening, except about fifteen minutes, during which he was walking from one house to another, as stated by several witnesses. The whole of Levi’s conduct has been such as to _totally_ repel the idea of guilt.”

 _And what man can stay sane in the face of such atrocious accusations?_ Burr thought.

“Much has been made of the appearance of guilt and terror in the prisoner’s face when charged with the crime. But, gentlemen, no man is armed with so much firmness of nerves that when charged with a crime, he will not discover great emotion in himself,” Hamilton said; Burr looked at him and swallowed. 

Hamilton felt dramatic. He smiled, and walked over to a heavy curtain hanging in front of the window, blocking out most of the afternoon glare. He pulled at it, revealing a piercingly bright band of sunlight that split the courtroom in half. Several members of the jury shielded their eyes, and he spoke, louder:

“In cases depending upon a chain of circumstance, all the fabric must hang together or the whole will tumble down. We shall, however, not depend altogether on the _weakness_ of proof on the part of the prosecution,” Hamilton gave a sharp, cruel grin to Colden, who winced in the bright band of sunlight. He paused, then finally dropped the curtain, “We shall bring forward such proof as will not leave to you even to balance in your minds, whether the prisoner is guilty or not. From even that burden, we shall _relieve_ you.”

Livingston tapped his co-counsel on the shoulder and Burr was made aware that he’d been leaning forward, on the edge of his seat for several seconds. Burr closed his mouth and muttered an inarticulate apology. 

Hamilton concluded his speech, “The only material facts on which I would observe here, is the expression ascribed to the prisoner of the Manhattan Well, but that circumstance will be satisfactorily accounted for, by proving to you that he had been previously informed that the muff had been found there, and it was therefore natural for him to inquire if the _body_ itself was not found there also.”

He walked over to the jury and put both hands on the banister, looking each of them in the eye, and dropping his voice so that they had to strain to hear, “If, gentleman, we show you all this-- you will be able to say, before leaving your seats, that there is _nothing_ to warrant you in pronouncing the prisoner guilty.”

 _Oh, your_ arrogance _, General._

\-----

Burr did everything he could to concentrate, to little effect. The high-colored man next to him moved and maneuvered himself against the bench, against Burr’s right side, and the smell of Hamilton’s hair transported him to their hours spent together. 

_Did Levi Weeks promise marriage to Elma? Relate all you know._

Their first two witnesses, a man named Demas and a woman named Lorena, came and went. Lorena, a store keep, looked directly at Hamilton as she spoke, as though he were her only audience, pink circles on her cheeks. 

“At about twelve noon on January second, the day Elma was found, Levi came into our house to buy some tobacco. I asked him if there were any news of Elma and he answered no. He went away, and in a half hour came back. I heard about this muff being found-- Mrs. Ring informed me--and I told him that Mrs. Ring had mentioned to me that the muff had been found in a drain near Bayard’s lane.”

“Did you take any particular notice of his countenance,” Hamilton asked. 

Lorena replied, “I did, but I did not perceive any charge or alteration in it.”

A member of the jury cut in; the same old man who’d asked to retire the night before, Burr noticed. The old man asked, “Was the Manhattan well mentioned?”

“No,” Lorena finally broke her stare from Hamilton, “There was nothing said about the well.”

Hamilton put his hand on the banister in front of Lorena and she stared down at it. He spoke, “Did you not hear Mr. Croucher say that he came near the well the evening when she was missing?”

“Yes, Mr. Hamilton. He told me he did.” Lorena concluded. 

More of their witnesses were called. Hamilton made his way back to the bench and sat, and Livingston shoved a piece of paper in their faces: Joseph, a man who was present at the finding of the body, was the next man to take the stand.

He shuffled to the bench and gave the same testimony that the others had: Elma’s reddened, bloated face, her torn dress, her water-logged clothes. His words started out quiet, and became stronger, Burr noticed, in opposition to the rest of the witnesses. Burr looked over at Livingston and Hamilton, and indicated that he’d like to question him. 

“Joseph,” Burr began, stepping out from behind the banister, “Do you remember anything in the conduct of Mr. Ring that led you to suspicions of improper conduct between him and Elma?”

Joseph looked embarrassed. He looked around and chewed his lip; Burr waited. 

“About the middle of September, when Mrs. Ring was in the country...I imagined one night I heard...a shaking of a bed and some considerable noise coming from Elma’s bedroom. I heard a man’s voice and a woman’s,” Joseph admitted. 

“Go on, if you please,” Burr insisted. 

Hamilton could almost see the plan formulating in mid air. 

Joseph went on, “...I am very positive the man’s voice in Elma’s bedroom was not Levi’s.”

One of the jurymen raised a finger, “Excuse me, sir. Are you saying you could hear through the walls?”

Burr turned back and looked at Hamilton. They both glanced at Colden, who rubbed his eyes. 

“Yes. The noise continued for some time, very loud. It woke me up. I heard...a man’s voice. Loud and lively. Then the man’s voice was…” Joseph cleared his throat, trying desperately to be mature about what he was explaining, “... _Unguarded_.”

Hamilton let out a sharp breath between his teeth. Livingston put a hand to his mouth. 

“I said to my wife, ‘that girl will be ruined’,” Joseph sighed, “I felt a good deal hurt, at the time, but never mentioned it or anything about it to anybody until after Elma was lost. Until now.”

The cross-examination of Joseph continued--the man who had the unhappy distinction of having a bedroom next to Elma’s. Hamilton watched Burr spar with Colden, back and forth, their quick succession of questions doing nothing to rattle Joseph.

_Have you ever seen the bed in Elma’s room? What kind of partition is it which divides the houses? Are you certain the man’s voice was Ring’s, sir? Did you ever hear anything before that induced you to suspect that there was an improper connection between Mr. Ring and Elma?_

Hamilton could not believe what he was hearing. Joseph painted a picture of a true house of perversions, borrowing Burr’s word-- a lively girl who moved from bed to bed. 

_So much for Christian goodness._

Burr slid back into the bench, hushed, “As soon as Mrs. Ring left for the country, Mr. Ring made his move.”

“I cannot believe this,” Hamilton leaned into him, “The poor girl was surrounded by predators.”

“Makes our job a bit easier, I would wager,” Burr countered. “Makes it more plausible that it wasn’t Levi who did the final deed.”

“How often did you hear this noise?” Colden asked

Joseph thought for a second, counting, “Eight to fourteen times, between September and October last.”

A murmur ran through the jury. 

“Colonel,” Hamilton whispered, “We have to get a better handle on this. I do not want them thinking that Levi killed Elma in a jealous rage.”

Burr nodded, touching his hand briefly, then standing. 

“Joseph, did you ever speak of this noise you heard in the night to anyone else besides your wife?”

Joseph rubbed his neck. He seemed to be internally debating something. He finally answered, “I don’t know. But I once said to Croucher that I believed he had a hand in it.”

Hamilton sucked air through his teeth. He nudged Livingston, who scrawled something quickly. 

Burr stepped closer to Joseph, “And did you ever converse with Croucher about where he was the evening Elma was missing? Did you ever see Croucher busy in spreading suspicions against the prisoner?”

All eyes were on Joseph, and he finally began to show signs of stress, “I...the day she was laid out, in the street, I saw him very busy, attempting to make people believe that the prisoner was guilty.”

Colden sprang out of his seat, scattering some papers, “When did you first mention to Croucher what you heard in the chamber?”

“At the coroner’s jury.”

“And how on earth could you distinguish between the voices of Mr. Ring and Mr. Weeks?”

“Oh, he’s mad,” Hamilton chuckled to himself. 

Joseph answered, “Ring’s voice is a bit higher than Levi’s.”

The deposition of Elizabeth Watkins was brought back in, and read, giving Colden a moment to collect himself, Burr thought. The defense listened intently. The narrative was slowly being shaped-- vindictive and ferocious passions assembling to overtake an innocent person. Burr stared at Hamilton as he called for Lorena again. 

“Have you, Lorena, ever had at any time any conversation with Croucher?”

Lorena took a deep breath, putting a curl behind her ear, “A day or two after Elma was found, he was at our house, and he said it was a very unfortunate thing that he had not come that way just in time, as he might have saved Elma’s life.”

Hamilton softened his voice, “You are very well convinced that he said this?”

“Yes, Mr. Hamilton.”

Another witness, Betsy, told a similar tale of Mrs. Ring’s stay in the country and her husband’s attentions to Elma, and Croucher’s insistence at being Elma’s protector-- the only man who could have _saved_ her, if only he’d _been_ there. Burr found himself thinking more and more about the man who protested too much; made too much of his own so-called love for Elma, and it burned him. He straightened his vest and loosened the top buttons.

_Elma looked pale the night of December 22nd. She didn’t want the others in the house to be frightened for her. She rested her head upon her hand. There was a whispering in the doorway. And she was gone._

More doctors-- Prince, Mackintosh, Romayne-- detailed the state of her corpse. A contusion on the neck, but not broken. The skin of the face was scratched, as with gravel. It seemed as if the knee were injured, on the way down. On the instep of her foot there was a small blood blister. Hamilton heard the scratch of Livingston’s quill as he marked each piece of evidence, one by one, like a shopping list. Hamilton squirmed and massaged his thigh. 

The last doctor was called, and Hosack entered the courtroom again. 

Upon his entrance, Burr stood and asked, “We have heard many different testimonies here today, Dr. Hosack. Is there any way in which all that we have heard can be reconciled?”

Hosack straightened his glasses, pursed his lips. 

“I think it may be reconciled in either of two ways. First, the spots mentioned might not have been visible at the time when the body was first taken out of the water, as they would after it had been exposed to the air for some days. But, the change of color in living bodies is not uncommon and I assume somewhat similar color-change in bruises may happen after death.” Hosack gesticulated with his hands in front of him. The candlelight reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes. 

He went on, “Secondly, it occurs to me that the neck and collarbone were broken when she was first taken out of the well-- and as I did not see her until the day of internment, it is possible that the frequent turning and bending of the head for inspection may have produced the appearance of a broken neck.”

The heaviness settled on Burr all at once, imagining Elma’s lifeless, water-logged body being handled carelessly. He looked at Hamilton and thought about their own daughters, similar in age, and rubbed his forehead. Burr pulled his hand away from his eyes and Hamilton was at their bench again. He sat down and the pair pondered the testimony together uneasily.

Hosack spoke like a professor, holding the jury’s attention. Even Livingston paused from his notes. 

“After death, the lungs will take in some water, but only as much as the windpipe will hold. The lungs will collapse at the last expiration, and a quantity of water _can_ be received afterwards. But this I do not assert from my own knowledge of the state of the body after death by drowning-- this was related to me by a doctor in London with whom I am acquainted. For, as you know, rarely can a drowned body be recovered for observation,” Hosack concluded, “After the body has lain a long time underwater, it is not unusual to find water in it.”

The jury was quiet as Hosack finished his second round of testimony, and as he was excused from the stand, began to murmur among themselves. 

“How are you doing, Colonel?” Hamilton whispered. 

Burr leaned back on the bench, rubbing the nape of his neck again. His shoulders hurt from the uncomfortable seat. The room was stifling; he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his head. The heat, compounded with an on-coming migraine, made him irritable. 

“Colonel Burr, are you quite alright?” Hamilton asked again, even quieter, dropping his head. “If you are to be sick, please tell me so that I may escort you to your apartments.”

“I fear a migraine coming,” Burr answered finally. His eyes followed the next witness, a store keep named David, to the front of the courtroom. Colden began questioning him, and Burr continued in a low voice to his co-counsel, “I want to wrap this bloody business up. I am done with it all.”

“I am too, Colonel,” Hamilton muttered, wiping ink on his breeches. The candlelight flickered prettily against his flushed cheeks. 

Burr stared at him for another few seconds.

David spoke about Croucher. 

“On the 26th of December, I think, Croucher came to my store to buy a loaf of bread. He said Ring’s family was in great distress, and that it wasn’t a surprise to him after what his landlord had told him, and being under the same roof at the Rings it gave him uneasiness. His own opinion, he said...is that the girl had…” David searched for words, “...made _way_ with herself.”

A blade of pain sliced the spot behind Burr’s eyes, and he stood, interrupting David, “You are saying that Croucher implied Elma brought the tragedy upon herself, yes?”

David nodded affirmatively, “On Friday, Croucher came running into my store and said, ‘what do you think of this innocent young man now? He is to be taken by the police, carried to jail, and hanged by the neck until he is dead!’”

“Did he say this in an angry tone?” Burr narrowed his eyes in the dim light.

“He had a quick way of speaking, though I cannot say if it was specifically angry.”

Burr walked closer, “Did he have any particular business with you at this time?”

David concluded, “No.”

Hamilton caught Burr’s eye, and motioned for him to come back. David was excused from the stand and Burr approached the banister, leaning on it. 

“ _What_ , General?”

“You are swaying,” Hamilton leaned forward, grabbing Burr’s wrist, “Just sit down, and I will find someone to grab you a glass of water.”

Burr pulled his wrist away and searched the courtroom, “Where is Croucher? Is he still here?”

“He is in the back-- just there,” Hamilton pointed to a crowd of men standing against the wall. Burr looked over and studied Croucher’s face. 

After a second, he brought his gaze back to Hamilton, hissing, “He looks guilt-ridden.”

“Colonel Burr--”

_“--Look at him, General.”_

“Mr. Burr, if you are finished questioning, please take your seat,” Judge Lansing called from his bench. The jury quieted and all eyes fell on the bickering lawyers. Hamilton blushed deeper and Burr lifted a hand in apology, throwing himself on the bench. 

He slouched, wincing, rubbing his temples. 

“The counsel for the defense would like to call Mr. Ezra Lacey, if it please your honor,” Livingston stood and interjected, holding his papers to his chest. He looked around the room and watched as the next witness appeared. 

Ezra took the stand, tripping nervously on the way up, turning red. He muttered an apology to Lansing. He sat down and clasped and unclasped his hands. 

“Do begin, Mr. Lacey,” Livingston ordered. 

Lacey chewed his bottom lip, then spoke, “I was a lodger in the house of Mrs. Ring, and was there the night Elma went missing. Levi was there about 8 o’clock in the evening. I sat a while with a friend in the drawing room, and then went to bed, feeling ill. We left Mr Ring and Elma together. I don’t recall if Mrs. Ring was there or not.”

Burr glared at the witness, then closed his eyes to take the pressure off of them. Next to him, Hamilton sat forward in his seat, hand on the banister. He felt Burr’s coiled energies next to him; frustration radiating off of him in quiet waves, and it made him nervous. He brought his head close to Burr’s again. 

“Colonel, you have to let me know what you are thinking.”

“These _fucking_ candles.”

Livingston stood in front of them, talking to the witness, shielding them from the gaze of Judge Lansing. 

“Is there something I can do? I can ask the constable for a few minutes’ repose,” Hamilton offered quietly. “I need you to stay alert for me.”

Burr straightened his back, dropped his shoulders, closed his eyes and tried to steady his breaths. He felt Hamilton place a hand on his, covertly. Livingston concluded his questioning, and called the next witness, another shopkeeper, William. 

Burr opened his eyes and watched the tall, thin, elderly man take his seat in front of the court. 

Hamilton dug his nails into Burr’s finger, focusing the pain away from his eyes to his hand. 

Seconds ticked slowly, and the jury waited while the elderly shopkeeper was overcome with a fit of coughing. He winced, covered his mouth, embarrassed. The flames around his head flickered from his breath; a snicker from Croucher, and Hamilton’s nail broke skin. 

William composed himself, struggling as he tried not to make eye contact with the jury, “Last Friday morning, a man came into my store. He said, excitedly, ‘good morning, gentlemen. Levi Weeks is taken up by the high sheriff, and there is fresh evidence against him--”

Hamilton let go of Burr’s finger, and as if he were being given permission, Burr stood. 

William paused mid-story, alarmed. Burr strode over to one of the flames that danced around the old man’s head and grabbed a candelabra. He shoved his way to where Croucher stood. In a flash, the flame was at Croucher’s throat, and every set of eyes in the courtroom looked his way. 

“What the fuck is he _doing?”_ Livingston hissed. “Hamilton, get him back here.”

Another involuntary, manic grin spread across Hamilton’s face. He bit his lip.

“Is this the man you saw, Sir? Joyously relating the news of Levi’s potential demise?” Burr’s jaw clenched, he locked his gaze on the startled old man. He looked back at Croucher and pushed the flame further into his face, curious to see how long he could stand it. 

“Get this fucking thing out of my face,” Croucher spat, and swatted the metal candelabra away. Several members of the jury exchanged concerned looks, a few shook their heads. 

“That is him,” William lifted a thin arm, coughing, pointing. “He said, ‘ask for me. My name is Croucher. There is evidence against Levi, and he will be hanged!’ He was happy about it.”

Violence flashed in Croucher’s eyes. For a brief second, Hamilton imagined Burr impaling him; lighting him on fire and setting _his_ body up for New York to gawk at. 

Burr pulled the candelabra back, feeling the constable’s hand on his arm. 

_“Sit down, Mr. Burr,”_ Lansing shouted. “That is quite _enough_ of that. Put the candle down and go back to your seat before I have you escorted out!” 

He glared at Burr as the constable led him back to where the rest of his co-counsel sat. Livingston sputtered, inarticulate, _“Have you lost your senses?_ Were you two planning this? Was this what your little early morning meeting was about? No wonder you didn’t want me to know-- that was _wholly_ ridiculous--”

Hamilton’s heart raced, scraping dried blood from beneath his fingernail; his shaking hands.

Lansing slammed his gavel and shouted to get the court’s attention. The jury craned their necks to stare at the defense team, intrigued. Livingston collected his papers and rose out of his seat, flustered.

“Well there you have it,” Colden spoke out petulantly, lifting a hand “The counsel for the prisoner must resort to theatrics in order to make their point. That should tell you all you know.”

Burr watched him speak, and could sense the desperation in his voice. _We are going to eviscerate you._

“Colonel...that was _incredible_ ,” Burr felt Hamilton’s gaze on him and couldn’t focus on the next witnesses being called.

“I feel as though I could pass out,” Burr leaned forward against the banister in front of them. 

“I was able to find some water, just back here,” Hamilton reached behind him on a small table and handed him the glass, “Drink it, please.”

Burr took it and gulped gratefully. 

Another lodger took the stand. 

Livingston shot one look back at his co-counsel, and then focused on the young man now sitting before them. Timothy, the witness, shifted nervously as the courtroom quieted down. He spoke, “I lodged at Mr. Ring’s a fortnight-- seven or eight days before Elma went missing.”

Livingston looked at him, “Did you observe any particular attentions from the prisoner to Elma?”

“She seemed...melancholy to me,” Timothy answered. “Sometimes she would make a joke...but it seemed forced.”

“Did you have any opportunity to observe the countenance of Levi?” Livingston asked.

Burr still couldn’t focus; Hamilton’s warm thigh against his. 

“Croucher looks like he wants to murder _you_ , Colonel,” Hamilton murmured, close enough that Burr could feel his breath. A couple members of the jury stole a glance at the two lawyers interestedly, and he didn’t care. Burr looked down at the nail marks on his finger, and the pain in his head throbbed. Hamilton grabbed his hand again, hidden, and applied pressure to a different spot. 

“That feels good, General, thank you.”

“Is it helping?”

“Yes,” Burr said softly. 

Livingston’s voice cut in, and he addressed Timothy, “How long was Elma sick while you were there?”

Timothy shifted in the seat, “Nearly half the time. Perhaps a week.”

“Was not her melancholy owing to her sickness?”

Timothy shook his head. Then, “No, Sir.”

Livingston looked back at his co-counsel, and Hamilton raised his free arm. He let go of Burr’s hand slowly, standing. He passed Livingston on his way to the witness.

“Timothy,” Hamilton began, “Did you ever see her take unusual quantities of laudanum?”

Timothy nodded solemnly.

“I was there one evening and the doctor was present, and she asked for laudanum. He offered to give her some if she would let him drop it into her mouth, which she consented to. So he dropped a number of drops into her mouth-- it was quite a bit. It surprised us all. But Elma said she wished she had a vial full. She’d take all of it.”

Hamilton dropped his gaze, comporting himself. He felt Burr walk up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder, “I will take it from here.”

\-----

Ezra Weeks finally took the stand as the clock neared nine pm. Hamilton eyed him; the man who would be paying all three of them more than a year’s salary for the defense of his younger brother. 

He was well-dressed and tall, with a proud countenance and thick hair. He looked nothing like Levi, who could not make eye contact with him as he approached the front of the courtroom. Hamilton found himself drawn to the well-spoken man, taken in by his self-possession and confidence and sketched in his mind a sort of rivalry between the two brothers: one successful, the other disappointed. He waited. 

“On Sunday, December 22nd, my brother Levi came to my house about nine o’clock in the morning. I went to church and left him there. I dined that day at my father in law’s and did not return home until about 5 o’clock. Just as we had finished our tea, Levi came in and stayed with us until 8. He inquired about the business of the next day, as he had been in charge of my shop. Since he is skilled in carpentry, I gave him some dimensions and a list of changes I needed made,” Ezra held up his drawings: five neatly planned pages of architect’s designs, “It was the general practice of my brother to call on me the evening before I he had work to do. That night, he came accordingly, ate a hearty supper and was as cheerful as ever. He left around 10 o’clock.”

Hamilton stepped forward, “Did your brother inform you that Elma’s muff and handkerchief were found prior to his arrest?”

“On the second day of January, about 2 o’clock in the afternoon, I was sitting down to dinner and Levi came and told me that a Mrs. Forest had told him that the muff and handkerchief were found in a well near Bayard’s lane. I told him that I supposed it must be the Manhattan well.”

Colden raised a finger, and interjected, “How did you come to the conclusion that it was the Manhattan well?”

Ezra regarded him, “Because I had furnished the wood materials for that well, and my business often called me that way. I saw it nearly every day. I suppose that is why it came to the forefront of my mind.”

Colden went on, “Did your brother know where the well was?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Had he not been there before the arrest?” 

“Not to my knowledge,” Ezra, instead of shrinking, grew defensive. Hamilton realized that despite their difference in situation, the brothers genuinely cared for each other. He listened inattentively to Colden wrap up his questioning, and Hamilton indicated he had no more, either. 

“Well-dressed, eloquent, a talent,” Burr leaned in again. “I like him.”

 _“Paying our salaries,”_ Hamilton interrupted, letting a small smile play on his mouth, “I _bet_ you like him.”

Charles, Peter, Joseph-- three more sets of testimony. The clock in the town square stuck ten and Hamilton wondered where he would be staying that night. The heat from the close-quarters was getting to him again. 

Philip, Thomas, William, Matthew. A man named Henry claimed that Mr. Ring was a good character, that he’d never do anything to hurt Elma. He was lively and fun-- but not too fun. He was a devoted friend and even more-- a _devoted_ husband. 

“Christ, do you think Ring paid him to say all that?” Burr whispered, locking eyes with Henry as he left the stand. Henry faltered and looked away. 

A man named Matthew claimed Ring said he’d shoot Weeks, given the chance. 

“You and I, both,” Hamilton said under his breath, watching Matthew leave the stand. 

“I want Croucher up there again,” Burr replied in a similarly dark tone. “Let’s get him up there.”

Hamilton stood up, “If it please your honor-- I would like to call Mr. Croucher to the stand again.”

Croucher’s self-satisfied smirk faded instantly, and he was pulled up to the front of the courtroom by the constable. He shook the constable off, muttering curses under his breath. 

Hamilton offered him a fake smile. 

“Mr. Croucher. Thank you for joining us again.”

“Well I didn’t exactly have a bloody choice, did I?” Croucher spat, shooting a dark gaze at the constable. He lifted a pointed finger at Burr, “And I’ll ask you to keep your candlestick out of my face or I’ll chop it off.”

 _“Ah,_ I remember discovering wordplay,” Hamilton said sarcastically. He clasped his hands together, and his grin disappeared, “Now, if you will focus, please. How many times were you at the Ring’s the night of Elma’s disappearance?” 

Croucher leveled him, “Three. And the latest about three o’clock.”

“Did you ever publish any handbills about murder?”

“No. I never did. Nor do I know anyone who did. I saw one at a friend’s, Mrs. Wellham’s, and I asked leave to bring it to Ring’s, but I was not permitted,” Croucher replied, “ _And that is all I know of them or ever saw of them.”_

Hamilton allowed the fake smile back on his face, “No further questions, your honor.”

Burr watched him walk back to the bench, amused. 

“You’re not going to let him chop off my candlestick, are you?” 

_“Just get up there and read your closing remarks,”_ Hamilton lifted his hand and gave him the floor.

Burr leaned in closer, “May I borrow your notes, General?”

Hamilton closed his eyes, exasperated, “I told you-- what did I say? I said you needed to write things down or you would forget them. I said those exact words--”

“--Hale’s _Plea of the Crown,_ there, if you don’t mind,” Burr pointed to a book that sat in Livingston’s open bag. Hamilton reached in and handed it to him. 

“It is two in the morning, sirs,” Colden called out loudly from across the courtroom, drawing all eyes on them. “If you could please just end this instead of bickering like a married couple, that would be appreciated.”

Burr stood and bowed dramatically toward Colden, eliciting some soft laughter from the jury. Colden rolled his eyes and loosened his tie, unbuttoned his vest, and stared ahead. Burr walked toward the jury, looking each of them in the eye. He opened the book, and took a pause. 

“In some cases, presumptive evidences go _far_ to prove a person guilty, though there be no express proof of the fact to be committed by him,” the room fell completely silent, and Burr went on, raising an arm, “But then it must be very easily pressed, for it is better five guilty persons should escape unpunished than _one_ innocent person should die.”

A shadow of doubt crossed the jury, and Hamilton grinned again. 

“If a horse is stolen from Mr. A, and the same day Mr. B is found upon that horse, is a strong presumption that Mr. B stole it. Yet I do remember that in a case like this, a Mr. B was _condemned_ and _executed_ , before a very learned and wary judge. And after further searching, it was found that a Mr. C had confessed that he was the man who stole the horse. Mr. B had died innocently.”

Hamilton moved to the edge of the bench. 

Burr’s gaze landed on him for a split-second, lit by candlelight, then back to the jury, “Another event in my remembrance was-- a Mr. A had gone missing and upon strong presumptions, Mr. B was supposed to have murdered him, and to have _consumed him to ashes in an oven.”_

Some members of the jury shook their heads; Burr paused to let them process the horrid tale. 

“Well. Mr. B was indicted for murder, and convicted and executed...and within one year, it was found that Mr. A was not dead, but had been sent to sail the seas against his will by Mr. B. And so, though Mr. B justly deserved death,” Burr stopped again, counted to three internally, measured to each beat of his heart, “...he really was not guilty of the offence for which he suffered.”

He slammed the book shut, and a few members of the jury started. Without a second look, he went back to the bench, sliding into it and handing the book back to an appreciative Livingston. 

“I have to admit, I did not know where you were going with that,” Livingston said, “But my god was it a ride.”

Burr sat back in his seat, felt Hamilton’s breath on his shoulder, “That was brilliant.” 

“Look at Colden,” Livingston cut in again, barely able to hide a smile. 

Colden had all but given up: his hair was falling out of the queue at the nape of his neck, his hands were covered in ink. He was paler, more peaked than he’d been that morning. He managed to speak, begging the court to close for the night so that he could sleep. His voice faded in and out as the defense talked amongst themselves

“I am ready to close if you are,” Livingston looked at his co-counsel.

Burr pushed his leg into Hamilton’s, “As am I, Henry. I am eager to return to my new apartments.”

“Indeed. After seeing them I can understand why,” Livingston laughed. 

In between them, Hamilton’s adrenaline kicked in and he wondered what the night had in store for them. He would have to make a decision soon, in any case. Colden’s complaints filtered back into his mind. 

“Your honor-- I have been without repose for forty-four hours. I am sinking under my own fatigue. I cannot speak anymore. I propose that we adjourn and come back for another day.”

An audible groan escaped the jury, and Lansing slammed his gavel. 

“Mr. Colden, we cannot be expected to keep twelve men yet another night on the City’s purse.”

“But, I--”

Another slamming of the gavel, “--I am putting my foot down, Mr. Colden. Constable, send the jury out for deliberations.”

Burr watched the twelve men stand and leave in a single file line, into an antechamber. Across the room, Colden put his head down onto the banister and Burr could have sworn he heard snoring, a soft cry, or both. 

Livingston stood, “You two won’t mind if I...ah...relieve myself, would you? It will only be a moment--”

Hamilton shrugged, “Christ Livingston, you don’t need to ask. I have a bad feeling we will be here several hours more, anyway.”

“This is my favorite part. The anticipation,” Burr whispered. “What do you think they’re saying about us in there?”

Hamilton turned back to him, “They are no doubt comparing us.”

“Which one of us was more theatrical and engaging, do you think?” Burr eyed him expectantly.

“You were, Colonel,” Hamilton sighed, “You win, this round.”

“I have such a good feeling, General, about all of this,” Burr dropped his voice even lower, looked around, and put a hand on Hamilton’s leg, “If we win this case, I want to celebrate with you.”

Hamilton’s heart raced. Embarrassingly, he noticed, the tightness in his pants made it hard for him to catch his breath and form a coherent answer. He managed, moving Burr’s hand, “Not here. I must go back to my own room at the inn or the innkeep will toss my things out, thinking I’m not coming back.” 

“What could be so important that you can’t afford to lose it? An old pair of stockings and some parchment? I will buy you new ones.”

“Stop throwing money around,” Hamilton snapped, and Burr looked slightly wounded. 

The pair were interrupted again as the jury shuffled back in. 

Both sets of eyes looked up: Hamilton straightened his back, a cold panic washing over him, “They’re back already? That is not a good sign...five minutes?.”

Burr moved his hand back to his own lap. Livingston appeared, and scooted into the bench, shock on his face. 

“They’re done deliberating?”

Burr answered flatly, “It would appear so.”

Lansing slammed his gavel, and the jury foreman cleared his throat. 

Burr could barely register the words-- _not guilty--_

An almighty uproar cried out in the courtroom at the words; Hamilton turned to him and threw his arms around his co-counsel, a long exhale of relief pressed into Burr’s shoulder and a fluttering heart. Livingston slammed a pamphlet of papers against the banister, letting out a cheer. At the other end of the courtroom, Colden threw his papers down and stormed out. 

The constable led Levi from the courtroom, who looked as if he were about to faint. 

Hamilton broke away from the embrace, and Burr stared at him, pupils dilated. 

\-----

“I know it is nearing three, but I cannot sleep,” Livingston said, stepping out of the courthouse into the cold night air. “I cannot believe it. Five minutes. They were gone for five minutes.”

He made his way down the sidewalk next to his co-counsel. He looked at each of them in turn, face alight with a brilliant smile. 

Burr slipped his arm around Hamilton’s, “You barely had time to take a piss.”

Hamilton tilted his head back, laughing. 

“Very classy of you, Burr,” Livingston replied, making a face, “Who is open at this time of night? I want a drink and a pretty barmaid to pour it for me.” 

He searched around, waving to the small group of men. They recognized him as one of the lawyers, and motioned for him to come over and regale them with the tale of the trial. He raised a finger, indicating they give him one moment. 

Livingston turned back around and faced the other two men, briefly pausing to look at their linked arms, and then back at their faces, “Well? Will you two join me? I have a feeling we will not be paying for our own drinks.”

“I am afraid I must be getting back to my apartments,” Burr answered quickly, “I have been keeping a migraine at bay for the better part of six hours and I fear the dam is about to burst. I must repose.”

Livingston looked to Hamilton, “You appear attached to Colonel Burr.”

Hamilton laughed giddily, “I _am_.”

“I tell you I have not seen the two of you so in sync since…” Livingston searched, smiling, “...Since _never_ , sorry to say. I wish you the loveliest of evenings. I must get over to that crowd before they riot.”

He hugged them each in turn, muttering more congratulatory thank-yous, and left the pair. They watched him disappear into the only open tavern on the entire street: a glowing yellow room filled with loud chatter and music. 

Hamilton felt himself being pulled towards an abandoned alley; the voices of the crowd and warm glow of the candle lit streetlamps were instantaneously traded for a velvet navy darkness and white puffs of breath. He felt his back hit a brick wall; Burr’s mouth on his. 

“Come stay the night with me, poet,” he breathed. Burr’s hands searched him, hooking his fingers on Hamilton’s waistband. 

Hamilton pulled away briefly, struggling, “...You know I cannot.”

“Yes you can. You can do whatever you want. You are unstoppable,” Burr murmured into his neck, hands traveling dangerously low. _“We_ are unstoppable.”

“I need to settle my board at the inn, I told you” Hamilton laughed softly. He put his fingers on Burr’s jaw and brought their faces together for another kiss. 

“Then I will walk you there. We will sneak in so no one sees us.”

“I will not have us celebrating in a drafty room on a half-stuffed mattress,” Hamilton pulled the other man’s necktie playfully, and Burr’s breath hitched, “Thin walls, Colonel. What about tomorrow evening?”

Burr’s face fell slightly, “Ah...I am having Mr. Vanderlyn finish the portrait.”

“And that will take all night, will it?” Hamilton pressed. He searched the other man, pursing his lips. 

“It might.” Burr responded, the ever-present shadow of a smile on his lips visible even in the darkness. He dragged his hands down Hamilton’s arms, and hooked his fingers into the other man’s, bringing one up to his mouth, kissing it. 

“I will never get you alone again. I can feel it,” Hamilton locked eyes with him, “You and your little band of myrmidons.”

“So I am _Achilles_ , now?” Burr pressed into him, dropping his voice to a barely-registered whisper, “What on earth does that make _you?_ Wandering around in someone else’s clothes.”

A crow laughed in the distance as Elma’s body was dragged away. 

\-----

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  



End file.
